A knight of the wilderness

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

GIFT OF

"Ma" Crandtll

A Knight
of the Wilderness

As he smiled he raised his eyes and met Sylvia's
glance. (See page 21.)

A Knight
of the Wilderness

By

OLIVER MARBLE GALE

and

HARRIET WHEELER

ILLUSTRATED BY IVIN NEY

CHICAGO

THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.

1909

Copyright, 1909

by
THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.

All Rights Reserved

Published October, 1909

List of Chapters

CHAPTER NO. PAGE

I THE MAN IN THE FLATBOAT 9

II THE BRAVE WHO SHOULD HAVE DIED 25

III LOVELIGHT 35

IV THE MAN WITH HAIR OF BRONZE 48

V THE FRONTIER CLERK 66

VI THE MILLHAND 79

VII SHADOWS 96

VIII LOVE AND FEAR 112

IX CANT-HOOKS AND CAPTAINS 125

X THE FLAG OF TRUCE 138

XI MASSACRE 152

XII A MESSAGE FOR THE HAWK 167

XIII SANCTUARY 181

XIV IN THE THICKET 189

XV THE CAPTURE 206

XVI THE WHITE MAN'S CHILD 215

XVII THE SHADOWS DEEPEN 226

XVIII THE RISK 236

XIX THE WHITE MAN'S FRIEND 242

XX THE CAVE IN THE EOCK 252

XXI THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL 265

XXII THE END OF THE TRAIL 277

XXIII RESIGNATION 290

XXIV THE MAN FROM THE DEAD 299

XXV DARKNESS 312

XXVI LIGHT . 324

Illustrations

AS HE SMILED HE EAISED HIS EYES AND MET

SYLVIA'S GLANCE. (See page 21) Frontispiece

LINCOLN SHOOK HIM TILL THE BREATH RATTLED
OUT OF HIM PAGE 76

"IT REMINDS ME OF TWO MEN DOWN IN KEN
TUCKY WHO CAUGHT A 'POSSUM IN A BOX
TRAP." PAGE 172

"FlRE FLY WILL NOT DIE. HE WILL BE A GREAT

CHIEF AND A MIGHTY HUNTER." PAGE 220

"SYLVIA!" His HAND REACHED FORTH AND

TOUCHED HERS, GENTLY PAGE 336

A Knight of the Wilderness

CHAPTER I
THE MAN IN THE FLATBOAT

ALL New Salem, tingling with excitement, was
down by Cameron's dam. It was not often that
excitement came to that little cluster of log cabins
perched on the banks of the Sangamon River in the
year of our Lord 1831. They had their births and
their burials, the people of New Salem, and their
wooings and their weddings ; but a village of a dozen
or more log houses cannot well keep itself fully
awake with stimulation so meager.

Now and then the outer world permitted them a
wanderer with gossip from Vandalia; or from
Louisville, if their fortune ran strong. Occasionally
an itinerant preacher passed that way and aroused
them to a state of pleasurable panic. At intervals
the boys from Clary's Grove paid them a rough, rol
licking call in facetious mood, making the present
exhilarating and leaving the future uncertain; but
the agreeable sensations which might have been de
rived from that form of diversion were marred by
danger to life, limb, and law which usually attended
these visits.

9

10 A Knight of the Wilderness

But all these things, in their uttermost possi
bilities, were as nothing compared to that which
stirred the inhabitants to the highest pitch of agita
tion and brought them hurrying down to Cameron's
dam on this morning in April. They were all there,
from the elegant and important James Kutledge,
descendant of the Eutledges of South Carolina,
founder of the settlement and keeper of the tavern,
down to the least toddler of the tow-headed, bare
legged Kelso brood, arrived the preceding autumn
from Indiana.

There was old John Cameron, who with Kutledge
owned the mill and the milldam. There were the
men of New Salem — the merchants, the smith, the
carpenter, the cooper — ejaculating and gesticulating
on the bank of the stream. There was Dame Rut-
ledge, with uncovered head, hot from her kitchen,
her bare arms wrapped in her apron against the
coolness of the spring air. There were all the
matrons of the settlement gathered about her in
voluble concourse.

There was Ann Butledge — demure, beautiful,
tender — standing by the side of her accepted lover,
John McNeill, the young and prosperous merchant.
There was Rachel Hall, the girl from Indian Creek,
black-haired, black-eyed, levying tribute upon her
blundering yokels in the midst of the envious daugh
ters of the town. There was her sister, Sylvia, fair-
skinned, with hair of twisted gold and eyes gath
ered from the skies of June; sedate, contained,

The Man in the Flatboat 11

smiling indulgently upon the capricious one at her
side.

The children of the settlement were there, awed
in the presence of the unusual, clinging to the skirts
of their mothers, staring dumbly out upon the river.
Even Mentor Graham, the schoolmaster, was among
them, book under arm, horn-bowed spectacles down
his nose, gazing with academic absorption upon the
scene that had turned the whole town out of doors.

A flat-boat, floating down the river in charge of
two men, had run aground on the middle part of the
dam, where the current flowed most swiftly. Her
nose hung in midair in front of the dam. Her stern
was buried deep beneath a tumbling rush of yellow,
muddy water. Every moment the waves piled
higher. Every moment they bore her down, clamp
ing her more firmly against the obstruction that
held her. She could not move. So much water had
already poured into her that she would not have
floated if she could have been freed. For all that
the people of New Salem could foresee, she was a
doomed wreck.

One of the two occupants sat on a barrel, which
the curling waters folded and lapped, and gazed with
stupid fascination at the slanting lines that the
waves were tracing higher and higher along the gun
wales. The other was exhibiting to the spectators
at the moment nothing more definite than a pair of
amazingly long and angular elbows and a couple of
interminable legs. He wan stooping over in the

12 A Knight of the Wilderness

after part of the boat, where the water was deepest,
for a purpose not then apparent.

Near the water, at the end of the dam, a small,
nervous, excitable man divided his time between
pacing the ground with frantic gesticulation and
profane admonition, addressed to the one stooping
in the after part of the boat — which that one did not
heed in the least — and sitting on a stump by the
river's edge in a state of the most profound and
absorbed melancholy. It was obvious that he was
the owner of the boat and the cargo.

The men of New Salem shouted advice. The
women clucked sympathy. The young men hooted.
The young women tittered. The children continued
to stare dumbly, stupefied by the spectacle of ship
wreck come to their very door. Mentor Graham,
adjusting his horn-bowed spectacles, stepped nearer
the scene to illuminate it with the light of science.
James Eutledge, being a man of tactful address,
endeavored to engage the owner in sympathetic
conversation, but to no purpose.

The man stooping in the stern of the boat,
oblivious to the confusion of tongues, arose slowly,
unfolding himself to a prodigious height. In his
hand he held a huge sack. Struggling slightly under
the weight of it, he carried it forward, dripping,
and placed it in the bow. Having done so, he
straightened himself to a still greater height, and
looked calmly with quizzical interest at the crowd
gathered on the bank. His eyes passed leisurely

The Man in the Flatboat 13

from one to another. As his glance turned, a hush
followed.

The hush was broken by a titter among the girls.
The titter grew into a nervous laugh, which ran
among the spectators and died abruptly. There was
something about the boatman that stirred them to
mirth. There was something about him which made
them doubt whether they should laugh. He was
ludicrously tall. He was grotesquely thin. He was
a succession of inelegant angles. High on his almost
interminable legs dangled a pair of frayed and
faded jeans. His raw wrists straggled below his
sleeves. His head inclined slightly, in a posture
half droll, half pathetic.

His face was as gaunt and bony as his frame.
High cheek-bones he had, and prominent jaws;
between them a great length of sallow cheek. His
nose was large, and somewhat awry. His mouth
was big and repressed. His features completed the
paradox of his figure. Those who looked could not
tell whether to laugh at him, or weep for him.

They could not tell until they saw the eyes —
and then they could not tell ! These were more baf
fling still. Pale blue they were, with lids that
drooped across them; unutterably sad, wistful, and
appealing. But in the moment that they were wist
ful, without so much as the slightest change coming
into them, they were commanding, compelling; and
while they were compelling, in their depths there
twinkled a sly mirth.

14 A Knight of the Wilderness

It was this spectacle of a man that the people of
New Salem gazed upon this April morning.

"Howdy," said the long boatman, presently, in
an even voice. Another titter, beginning with
Rachel Hall, grew into a laugh, which died away as
the first had done.

"You make me think of a little boy I used to
know down in Indiana," continued the man, sol
emnly. The mirth in the depths of his eyes flashed
and played fitfully as he began to speak. "His
father had a cow he called Betsy. Betsy was a
great cow to kick, and the little boy used to like to
watch his father milk her. One day the cow kicked
the old man in the head and killed him. Pretty soon
the boy's mother married again. Somebody asked
the boy how he liked his new father. 'Oh, well, I
don't think much of him,' said the boy, 'but I 'm
glad he 's come, 'cause now there 's somebody I can
watch Betsy kick again.' Maybe you don't think
much of us, but you seem powerful glad to see us
this morning, just the same."

Without further word he turned and strode back
where the water piled over the stern of the boat.
On shore there was a moment of silence. The peo
ple of New Salem were not immediately alive to the
significance and application of the story. Presently
a soft and silvery laugh tinkled above the sound of
the cascade rushing over the mill dam.

The man in the boat, taken by the music of the
laugh, cocked his head where he stood stooping in

The Man in the Flatboat 15

the water. His eyes searched among the specta
tors. They fell upon the demure, tender, beautiful
young woman standing beside the young man of
assertive and prosperous bearing; Ann Butledge
and her accepted lover. As he looked, she laughed
again. Her blue eyes, full of merriment, returned
his glance. Without the stirring of a muscle, with
only a changing light in the depths of his own, the
man in the boat answered her laugh and her look
with complete understanding. There are meetings
that are electrical. There are companionships that
begin with ages of comprehension already behind
them.

In the moment of their communion the gaze of
the boatman fell, and he returned to his labors,
whelmed with self-consciousness. In the same
moment the story reached home, and a gust of
laughter arose from the spectators; even Mentor
Graham wisely smiled.

The shouts of advice, the banter of the young
men, presuming upon the boatman's facetiousness,
redoubled. The long boatman, stooping in the stern
of the craft with his wrists buried beneath the
swirling water, paid no heed. Neither did the other
boatman, still sitting on his barrel island. Neither
did the melancholy man against the stump.

Again the tall and angular boatman unfolded.
Again he had in his great hands a sack, heavy and
cumbrous, which he carried to the bow of the boat.
Depositing it there, he grinned amiably at the peo-

16 A Knight of the Wilderness

pie on shore, setting them off into another gust of
laughter, and turned once more toward the stern.

Hope awakened in the breast of the disconsolate
man leaning against the stump at sight of the activi
ties aboard. His eyes lighted. His lips moved.

" What — what you tryin' to do, Abe?" he
faltered.

" Trying to get your boat over this dam, Mr.
Offutt," replied the one addressed. "Perhaps you
may have noticed that it isn't moving very fast
right now."

It was clear now that this man was to be laughed
at, and the people of New Salem laughed joyously,
uproariously, even down to the children, who laughed
because the others did, and because they thought
the man in the boat was making faces at them. And
to please them, he did make faces at them as he con
tinued to move sacks and barrels and sides of pork
from the stern of the boat to the bow, overhanging
the river below the dam.

Under a constant fire of suggestion, serious and
facetious, the tall boatman continued to labor with
the cargo, bringing it bit by bit into the projecting
bow. In course of time the big, cumbrous craft
began to teeter, to seesaw on the dam which held it,
as he passed back and forth. Each time the bow
dipped beneath his weight, a shout of warning went
up from the banks, topped off with a shrill scream
from the unhappy Mr. Offutt. Each time that it
dipped, the tall boatman watched it, with careful

The Man in the Flatboat 17

and calculating observation, and immediately
brought forward another piece of cargo.

At last he brought forward no more. Standing
in the bow, he surveyed the grinning crowd with sad
visage.

''You remind me of a man I used to know in
Kentucky," he said to them, after a pause. "One
night he got lost in a storm. It was thundering
pretty bad. All of a sudden there was a tremen
dous crash that lasted for a minute. The man
dropped on his knees. 'Oh, Lord,' he said, when it
was over. ' Oh, Lord ! If it 's all the same to you,
give us a little more light and a little less noise.'
If some one of you people will fetch me an auger
I can get along without his conversation while he
goes to get it. ' '

The people of New Salem roared again with
delight at the tale. William Munson, chief hand in
the mill and chief swain among those who hovered
about Rachel Hall, disappeared into the building,
followed by the hoots and jeers of the delighted
audience. He emerged with an auger in his hand.

"How we goin' to git it to yer?" queried Mun
son, standing at the edge of the stream.

"Throw it," returned the tall boatman, sitting
on the suspended bow, his heels dangling nearly to
the water beneath.

Old John Cameron came into action. He was
canny Scotch, was old John Cameron. If the boat
must be lost, that would be unfortunate for the

18 A Knight of the Wilderness

owner of the boat. There was no need, however, of
risking his auger. Whatever was going to happen
to the boat, there was no immediate danger that it
was going to injure the dam in its wreck, and there
fore no ground for sacrifice on his part.

"Na! Na!" he cried, in deep agitation, laying
hand on the arm of William Munson. * * Dinna heave
it ! Dinna heave it ! Ye might droon it, lad ! ' '

Mr. Offutt, ignorant of any purpose that might
be behind the auger, but confident that his boatman
and his boat stood in need of it, pressed upon Cam
eron with fantastic and alluring offers of reward
and insurance. Munson, uncertain, stood with arm
uplifted, ready to hurl the tool. The spectators
were in a flurry of excitement. The tall boatman
himself was in the first words of an anecdote suit
able to the occasion, when the entire course of events
was abruptly arrested by the appearance on the
scene of another actor.

He was a young man with a face of clean and
manly beauty. Hair, the color of bronze, escaped
in waves from beneath his soft hat and fell across
his temples. His skin was smooth and fair, with a
translucent blending in it of brown and white. His
eyes were a warm, rich brown, behind gentle lids.
His mouth was full-lipped, tender, sympathetic. It
gave a suggestion of softness of character, which
was brought into balance by the firmness of his chin
and the strength in his jaws.

He was mounted on a roan horse of surpassing

The Man in the Flatboat 19

beauty and spirit. He had come among them like
an apparition. They had not seen him as he rode
toward them, following the road from Springfield,
splashing through the mud of the rough way. They
had not seen him until this moment, when he drew
horse beside William Munson. The stranger leaned
over and took the auger from his hand, made limp
and unresisting by the suddenness of the other's
appearance and the assurance of his action.

"Let me have the auger," he said, quietly, as he
took it.

Before those who looked on could bring their
thoughts together, before the bewildered John Cam
eron could interpose objection, the young man on
the roan had taken his horse to the head of the dam
and driven it out upon it, with soft words and gentle
strokes of encouragement.

Snorting nervously, quivering, with crouching
knees, the animal bore its rider out along the nar
row way. The yellow waters of the Sangamon
spurted against hoof and fetlock. They leapt up the
slender, trembling limbs. They piled against shoul
der and flank. With soft words, with gentle strokes,
the rider urged on, calm, cool, deliberate.

They were ten feet, five feet, from the stranded
boat. The rushing waves grappled with them,
striving to throw horse and rider over the dam into
the swirling, sucking backwater at its foot. Against
the force of it horse and rider leaned. The man,
speaking softly, stroked the neck of the beast coax-

20 A Knight of the Wilderness

ingly. On shore there was no word. Old John Cam
eron held his breath. Denton Offutt stood with
hands in his hair, his eyes staring. The boatman
sitting on the barrel revived his interest in life and
took his eyes from the shifting lines which the
waves were drawing along the gunwales of the boat.
The tall one arose from his seat in the bow and
reached out his hand.

1 'Beckon I can reach it now, stranger. Much
obliged," he said, a ring of admiration in his voice.

The stranger handed on the auger. With quiet
touch, he reined his horse's head up stream and
spoke a word of command. The animal brought its
feet carefully together on the narrow top of the
dam. There was no trembling of the limbs now.
There was no snorting. With every muscle steeled,
with every nerve tense and drawn, it stood balancing
on the brink.

A muffled sound, half gasp, half scream, broke
from the midst of a group on shore. Sylvia Hall,
her heart pulseless, clenched hands upraised as
though they could hold the horse and rider safe
where they balanced, stood pale and wavering, not
knowing that it was she who made the sound. The
tall boatman, auger in hand, gathered himself,
ready to do what might be needed in the rapids
below. Denton Offutt groaned and sank against
his stump. John Cameron shut out the sight with
his hands. Dame Kutledge clutched her apron

The Man in the Flatboat 21

between her fingers till it tore. Ann Rutledge
pressed against her lover's side.

The rider, hearing the sound of alarm, turned
his head toward the group whence it had come, to
reassure with a look those who feared. His eyes
were calm and unperturbed as they fell upon them;
but as they fell upon the drawn, tense face of Sylvia
they glowed warm, as the eyes of one who sees a
vision of beauty for the first time.

The danger of the adventure was largely in the
minds of those who saw it. They were accustomed
for the most part to such mounts as they could
bring from plow or treadmill. The roan was of
finer quality and spirit than the horses of which
they had had experience. It crept back step by step
to the end of the dam with sure and cautious foot.
It scrambled upon the shore with a little volley of
pent-up snorts. Nickering, it turned its head
towards its master, to ask if it had done well. He
smiled upon the animal and spoke tenderly to it.

As he smiled he raised his glance toward the
group where Sylvia was, and met hers full upon
him. Swiftly as she turned aside, she was not so
quick that she did not see the warmth which came
swiftly into his eyes beneath her look. With the
warmth still in them, he drew his horse behind the
crowd to avoid the marveling applause bestowed
upon him by those who had watched, and modestly
retired from their sight.

It was not hard to escape them. Their attention

22 A Knight of the Wilderness

was not long diverted from the wreck, where the
sad-faced boatman was now down on his knees, bor
ing a hole with his auger through the planks in the
bow. In a moment it was done. In another moment
the other of the crew was swept from his seat on the
barrel by the long arm of his fellow, and the barrel
itself was rolled far forward. Another barrel, and
another, was added to it. The vessel careened
beneath their weight. The stern lifted clear of the
tumbling current behind it. Splashing and churn
ing, the water in the craft surged forward, and
spouted through the hole in the planking. Denton
Offutt, comprehending at last, arose from the stump
with a mighty shout.

" Hurrah for Abe! Hurrah for Abe Lincoln!"
he cried at the top of his shrill voice. "I told you
he was smart ! I told you he was smart ! ' '

As it was the first time he had opened his mouth
in direct address to the crowd during the morning,
there were grounds for disputing the statement of
the excited boat owner, but no one was in a mood
to do so. Instead, they added their voices to his,
acclaiming the knowledge and daring of Abe Lin
coln, the tall boatman, with a noise that could have
been heard in the last log-house in the settlement,
if anyone had been left there to hear it.

The boat was drained. The hole was plugged
up by the long boatman. A rope was passed. The
craft was dragged from her dangerous perch by
the men ashore and floated in the stream below.

The Man in the Flatboat 23

Denton Offutt, as exuberant as he had been miser
able, demanded the instant attendance of all New
Salem at the tavern, and forthwith started thither,
his arm linked through the angular elbow of his
boatman; on the other side of whom with an arm
linked through the other angular elbow, marched
James Rutledge, descendant of the Eutledges of
South Carolina, keeper of the inn of New Salem
and part owner in the dam that had brought it all
about.

As they went, a young man on a roan horse,
climbing the road that led from the river to the
village, turned to look back on the shouting crowd
he left behind. One there was who took no part in
the demonstration. One there was whose blue eyes
followed him in his climbing, whose glance fell
abashed before his own as he turned. With a
warmth in his beautiful brown eyes, he wheeled into
the village street at the brow of the hill, and was
lost to sight.

That was a big day in the history of New
Salem — bigger than they knew, though they held it
in vast importance. That night, in the mingling of
many potations, Denton Offutt, happy beyond
description, made open declaration, among other
things, that he was coming to New Salem to open
a store, and that he was going to make Abe Lincoln
his clerk, soon as ever Abe Lincoln should return
from New Orleans, whither he was taking the boat.
He furthermore asseverated that Abe Lincoln was

24 A Knight of the Wilderness .

the smartest man in the United States, and could
wrastle any man in Illinois; in which statements
none felt presently inclined to dispute him.

In the next room was to be heard the even voice
of Abraham Lincoln in narrative mood, punctuated
at intervals by the hearty, uproarious laughter of
the young men of Salem. He was the man of the
hour.

CHAPTER H
THE BKAVE WHO SHOULD HAVE DIED

AT the right angle formed where the clear waters
of the Black River flow into the tawny floods
of the Mississippi, in the years that have been, was
the village of Saukenuk, a town of the Sacs and the
Foxes, the town of Black Hawk's people. It was a
village of some five hundred lodges, large, comfort
able, substantial. The houses were placed symmet
rically, with equal spaces between them and at an
even distance from the open space through the cen
ter of the town, which served at once for street and
common. At the point of land, the apex of the
angle, was the lodge of Black Hawk, more preten
tious than the others and somewhat separated from
them by a greater space surrounding it. About the
whole was a palisade of brush, through which a
gateway opened to each cardinal point of the
compass.

Not far to the east of the village a hill arose
abruptly from the plain to a height of about two
hundred feet, overlooking town and rivers and
much of the country 'round about. Its steeper sides
were covered with woods and thickets. Upon its
lesser slopes were patches of the fields of corn and
potatoes and beans, which spread over the rich soil

25

26 A Knight of the Wilderness

in picturesque variety about its base. At the foot of
the hill, along the banks of Bock River, crept a
beautiful grove of oaks and elms and maples,
fringed with willows that grew at the water's edge.
Beneath the trees were the graves of generations
of Sacs and Foxes. It was the Silent City, the City
of the Dead, sacred and holy to the Indian.

It was mid-June in the year 1831. Black Hawk
stood upon the summit of the hill, called by his lov
ing people Black Hawk's Watchtower. Full of
years was Black Hawk; but his slight, spare frame
was straight and vigorous. His red lips were full
and mobile ; his nose was sharp and hooked, like the
beak of the hawk for which he was named; his eyes
flared and gleamed with emotion, or grew dull and
heavy with sorrow. This day the shadow of sad
ness had fallen across them as they gazed upon the
panorama of river, field and woodland, his domain
for many years, which it had been given him by his
people to keep for his people.

He was not alone as he stood there. Beside him,
close pressing, her tiny hand clasping his own, her
cheek upon bis shoulder, stood an Indian maiden,
beautiful beyond the wont of her kind. Slender,
straight, graceful, rounded into the exquisite con
tour of perfect maidenhood; dusky cheeks like the
autumn skies when the last sunlight flushes across
them ; lips delicately curved, hinting of song and of
love, of scorn and of hate ; eyes as dark and as deep
as the sea where the depth of water makes it black ;

The Brave Who Should Have Died 27

eyes as potent as the sea sleeping beneath summer
zephyrs ere the storm awakes; teeth of snow; radi
ant, tender, loving, reliant, fiery, high-souled, she
was one to dream of through the evenings of June —
one to cling to through the storms of January. She
was Feather Heart, daughter of Black Hawk,
beloved of the tribe.

' * Nay, ' ' she was saying, in a voice like the night
winds through the pine trees, like the shaded waters
plashing among the white stones in the brook; "nay,
my father should not be downcast. Many years has
the Black Hawk led his people to the planting since
Quash-Quame, senseless from their fire-water, sold
our lands to the whites, and they have not come to
take it away from us. Surely they will let us go in
peace till you, and even I, my father, have passed
on to the happy hunting grounds, where my mother
sings for us through the long night."

"The Hawk knows! The Hawk knows!"
responded the chief, with heavy heart. "What
should my little Feather Heart know of the whites?
Even now they are upon us. Look! See, their
lodges are at our gates!"

He pointed across the vista to the eastward,
where a little cabin stood in the midst of a culti
vated field. About the door played a white child.
Within, a white woman busied herself about her
household duties, singing as she worked; singing a
song of the whites, a hymn of the church militant.
Beyond, scattered through the distance, other cab-

28 A Knight of the Wilderness

ins, of logs roughly thrown together, told of the
forefoot of advancing civilization.

"What should Feather Heart know of them?"
continued Black Hawk, restraining his glance
from roving among the scattered houses. "Why do
the whites tear our fences? WTiy do they plow our
fields? Why do they slay our horses when they
rove? Why do they take our women, to beat them
and send them back, broken, to us? Why do they
taunt and revile us? What should Feather Heart
know of their ways? It is that they may tempt the
Hawk to strike; that they may drive our young
men to revenge, so that they may call their warriors
from their white lodges in the land of smoke and
drive us across the Father of Waters. Many years
has Black Hawk led his people forth to the plant
ing, and much wisdom has he got of the ways of the
whites!"

The bitterness of his knowledge was in his tones.
For a moment there was silence. Feather Heart
spoke :

' ' But is it not that Quash-Quame made it so with
the whites that we should live and plant here till
they need our fields for their lodges ? Surely, there
is room here for them, and for us. Surely they will
not drive us away!"

"Feather Heart knows nought of the blackness
in the heart of the white man," the chief returned,
and was silent.

The Brave Who Should Have Died 29

The slumbering seas within her eyes awoke
before the storm that sprang into her soul.

"Then shall the Black Hawk fight!" Her voice
was sharp as the wind that whips the wavetops into
spindrift; harsh as the spray that dashes against
the rocks of islands in the sea. "The Hawk has
many young men. . The Hawk has braves that are
as the trees in the forest. The paleface shall not
drive us from our planting. The spirits of our dead
cry out to us from the Silent City. Shall the Sauk
not hear their cry ? ' '

"The braves of the Great Father are as the
leaves on the trees," returned the chief, sadly.
"Feather Heart must speak no more of fighting."

His voice grew stern. His firm eye met hers.
There was command in word and look. She obeyed,
though the storm still surged in her eyes. For a
space it swept across them, and was gone; the
obedience of the Indian daughters was without
question.

The storm was gone when she raised her eyes
to gaze upon the bluffs lying black against the
reclining sun on the distant side of the mighty river
that rolled to the west of them. It was gone, and in
its place there was a trace of sadness which she
would have hidden from her father by turning her
head from his shoulder, where it had nestled again
with the going down of the storm.

"The party of our young men which went lately
among the Ihoways ; was it not the party that came

30 A Knight of the Wilderness

back to our village this morning?" she said, at
length.

Black Hawk aroused himself from revery to
answer that it was.

There was a pause.

"Did not the White Eagle go forth with them?"
continued the girl.

"The White Eagle went with them."

"He came not back!" murmured the maiden.

There was a pause.

"Did our young men say why it was that he
came not back?" Her voice was as though she
spoke of that which was nothing; for this maiden
was an Indian maiden. For a space there was no
sound between them ; only the call of the thrush, the
song of the robin saluting the setting sun, the plain
tive cry of the cat-bird from the thicket behind them
rose to the top of the hill where they stood.

The voice of Black Hawk floated out upon the
dying afternoon, low, intoned, sepulchral. "The
White Eagle went forth into the west with his death
song in his throat," he said. "The White Eagle
will come no more among his people. He has gone
to the land of his fathers ; he walks to-night in the
happy hunting ground. Such is the law of blood
between the Ihoways and the Sacs."

Sad as the lonely sea were the eyes of the Indian
maiden as the words of her father sank into her
heart. Cold as the vacant depths of the sea was her
voice when she made response. "It is well," she

The Brave Who Should Have Died 31

said. "If the hand of the White Eagle hath been
raised against the friend of the Sacs, the hand of
death must be raised against the White Eagle. But
I did not know that he had slain among the Iho-
ways!" she added, with a tone of misery in her
voice which she could not restrain, Indian maiden
though she was.

"It was not he. It was his brother Half Ear
who slew," Black Hawk made answer, after a
pause.

A tremor passed across the beautiful shoulders
of Feather Heart as she heard. Now of all times
she dared not turn her face to look upon the face
of her father. If she had turned, she would have
seen it all tenderness, all compassion, full of under
standing; she would have thrown herself into his
firm arms and cried out against life. But Feather
Heart did not turn. Feather Heart, daughter of a
chief, erect, with head thrown high, looked across
the great river into that West whither White Eagle
had gone with the song of death in his throat, and
spoke again with a voice as gentle in her soft throat
as the plashing of the surf upon the margin 01
southern seas.

"Tell me," she said.

Black Hawk complied. "Half Ear loves the
strong waters. He knew not what he did when he
struck down one who was as a brother. It was in
the hunting across the river, before the snows. The
man was of the Ihoways. They cried out for blood,

32 A Knight of the Wilderness

as the law runs. The time came when our young
men were to go to them with the one who had slain.
Half Ear, lying sick with a fever in his mother's
lodge, could not go. It was needful that some one
of the blood give blood back to the Ihoways, lest
much blood should run. It was the word of the
Sauk that it should be so." The voice of the chief
lowered. "The White Eagle went forth into the
land beyond the rivers, which is the land of the
Ihoways, with the song of death in his throat. ' '

There was no sound from the Indian maiden as
she stood with her face fixed upon the west. There
was no motion of her body. It was as though she
were already one of those who dwelt in the Silent
City. The sun, sinking into the sky where she
gazed, struck red upon the surface of the Father of
Waters. Across the sky spread the color of blood,
softened into beauty by the brush of nature.
Through the hush that was about them came the
laughter of children in the village beneath, the song
of the robin, the trilling of the thrush, the plaintive
call of the cat-bird.

"It is — it is well," murmured the Indian
maiden.

Deep over the face of the Father of Waters
flushed the glow of the setting sun. Deep across the
fields and forest settled the hush of eventide. Deep
into the heart of the Indian maiden, the daughter of
the chief, sank the sorrow of the Law of Blood.
Motionless, silent, she stood there, her face ruddy

The Brave Who Should Have Died 33

in the glow that came from sky and water. Motion
less, silent, the chief, her father, stood behind her,
gazing beyond her slight form, gazing beyond the
red, flowing river ; gazing beyond all that was within
the ken of eyes.

As he gazed, a low, sharp cry came from the lips
of the girl. He was at her side. He looked swiftly
into her face. Her lips were parted. Her cheeks
were flushed with a higher flush than that of the
dying day. Her eyes were fixed upon the broad
bosom of the Mississippi. His own glance followed
them ; he saw what she saw.

Black against the rushing red of the current,
leaving a wake that closed red behind, something
came toward the shore with slow and even motion.
Beside it, like wings of the eagle, feathering
splashes of water came and went rhythmically, fall
ing back into the smooth surface in ruddy drops
and films through which shone the glow that was
on the water. The plashing sound of them came
faintly to those who watched from the Tower.

For an enduring silence they stood there.
Nearer and nearer came that which was black
against the glow on the water. The red turned to
pink, to grey; that which was dark against the
waves came closer still. It was the head of one who
swam. It came near the shore. It stopped. It arose
from the water. A young Indian, magnificent in
grace and strength, stood in the shallows. He
breathed deeply. He plashed to the shore. He

34 A Knight of the Wilderness

walked toward the village and into the gate that was
by the lodge of Black Hawk.

Black Hawk bent his glance upon the Indian
maiden. Her face was set against the West. Her
eyes were wide. Her lips moved. She spoke. She
spoke to the sun that was gone, to the hush that was
about them, to the star that fluttered in the grey sky
of twilight.

"The White Eagle should not have come," she
said. Her tone was dead as the sea when the wind
has long laid dead. "It was the Law of the Blood.
It was the word of the Sauk. My father would not
have come back. It were better for him that he had
not come."

"It were better for him that he had not come,"
echoed the Black Hawk.

He turned into the trail that led to the village,
and left her with her face fixed upon the West,
whence the last red of evening had died into ashes.

CHAPTER III
LOVELJGHT

GREAT was the grief that night in the lodge of
Light Foot, the mother of Half Ear; the
mother of the White Eagle, his brother. The Eagle
had gone into the land of the Ihoways for a sacri
fice; he had come back living into the land of the
Sacs. The eye of the chief had looked aslant upon
him. The braves of the Sacs had made a scoff at
him. His shame was upon the lodge of his mother !

Bitter were the reproaches heaped upon him by
Half Ear, his brother, now well of the fever which
had detained him from the sacrifice. Long and elab
orate were the repinings of Light Foot. All through
the night, while her son, the White Eagle, lay at
her feet, Light Foot mumbled her woe, from time
to time casting over her locks dust from the floor
of her lodge.

"He of the hollow heart has come back," she
moaned. "The White Eagle went that his brother
Half Ear might live. The White Eagle has come
back ; now must we all die, for the law of blood has
been broken. Like the eagle went he forth; like the
duck he came back, swimming in the water. His
mother is the mother of a coward. Old squaws will
laugh at her ; the children of young squaws will mock

35

36 A Knight of the Wilderness

his brother with their fingers; his brother is the
brother of a coward. Half Ear is brave; but the
White Eagle is a coward; Half Ear is a friend of
the whites with much honor; the White Eagle is the
enemy of his own people, and will be made to work
in the corn with the squaws. He will hoe corn when
his brother goes to the hunt!"

Thus through the night she moaned. If the
White Eagle heard her, he made no sign or answer,
but lay peacefully at her feet, until the day broke,
and the Sauk song to the sun reverberated through
the village. He made no answer when Half Ear,
lowering over the parched corn which Light Foot
gave them to eat, upbraided him anew for cowardice
and perfidy. With eyes cast down, with even breath,
he ate his corn in silence.

Surly and ill-natured, Half Ear left the lodge of
his mother as soon as he had eaten his corn. With
hanging head and muttering lips he slunk past the
corner of the bark house and slipped stealthily
behind the rows to the gate in the palisade of brush
that ran along the eastern side of the village.

"He goes to his friends, the palefaces," mumbled
Light Foot to herself.

Sinister and forbidding was Half Ear. In his
youth he was the Blue Wolf ; now he was Half Ear,
for that one half of his right ear had been lopped off
in a drunken fight with his friends, the whites. He
had a lean and hungry look, had Half Ear. His nose
was thin and twisted. His eyes, close together,

Lovelight 37

seemed to look at divergent things though their gaze
was straight. His mouth was sharp and drawn. His
ears, so much as were left him, were small, and stood
abruptly from his head. The sun shone yellow and
sick through them. Of all the Sacs in Saukenuk, he
alone did not stand upright on his heels, as a Sauk
should. His voice was thick, and shook when he
spoke. About him was the air of the fallen, the
degenerate. He was victim to the firewater of the
whites. That, in the beginning and the end, was the
wickedness of Half Ear.

"See! Half Ear steals away from before the
faces of the people," wailed Light Foot, when that
one had left. "Such is the shame that the Eagle
brings to the wigwam of his mother ! ' ' She fell again
to moaning and casting dust upon her head.

White Eagle, looking sorrowfully upon her,
passed from the lodge and walked along the village
street. As he went, silence fell upon those who were
gathered there, like the hush that comes upon sing
ing birds when the shadow of the eagle hovers over
the copse. With half glances, they whispered to each
other behind their hands. The warriors and the
young hunters grunted their contempt for a Sauk
who had betrayed the word of a Sauk, given unto
the friends of the Sacs.

' ' Like an eagle he went away ; he comes back like
a duck, squattering in the water," mumbled White
Cloud, the prophet, taking up the words of another,
after the manner of prophets.

38 A Knight of the Wilderness

"His liver is the liver of a chicken!" replied the
Black Hawk, walking by the side of his prophet. His
look was more sad than angry when he said it.

The White Eagle, hearing their contumely, see
ing their scornful nods and gestures as he passed,
walked to the end of the village street with slow step
and head held proudly in the air; walked past the
lodge of Black Hawk with eye unbending; deigned
not a glance toward the door of the lodge where
Feather Heart stood watching him; walked to the
southern gate, turned, and made his way back among
the scoffers to his mother's lodge. There, with eyes
fixed in sadness upon the fire where Light Foot
parched corn, setting aside his proud demeanor, he
sat grieving through the hours of morning.

The sound of a drum rattled through the village ;
the drum of the crier. White Eagle, sitting on the
ground of his mother's lodge, raised his head, alert
and listening. He questioned Light Foot with a look.

"This is the day of the dance, when the braves
of the Sacs tell of the deeds they have done since the
last planting," said the woman, in a doleful voice,
making lament. "There is none from the lodge of
Light Foot to go among the warriors with a tale of
bravery; for the White Eagle has turned into a
duck, and Half Ear is brought low by the disgrace
of his brother!"

The grief of the woman awakened again. She
went on dismally, rocking and groaning on the floor
of her lodge.

Lovelight 39

The drum rolled once more. Cries arose 'from
the warriors, gathering in a square in the center of
the village. One leaped into their midst to chant in
loud voice of the deeds of valor he had done since
the last dance; of his mighty hunting; of slaying
braves of the Sioux tribe, their deadly enemies; of
stirring ventures and close escapes. He was done.
The warriors raised a mighty cry. The drum rattled.
Another advanced to the center of the square, and
chanted his tale. Another, and another, through
hours, they came and told of their deeds.

White Eagle, sitting in the lodge of his mother,
listened long to the sounds of the dance. The last
brave chanted his story ; the drum beat for the last
time. The dance was finished. Loud shouts went up
from the warriors and hunters; the final ceremony.
In a moment they would disperse.

Above the shouting floated the sound of a young,
strong voice, raised in lamentations ; in the farewell
song of the Sacs. White Eagle, stripped of feathers,
with his face raised to the sky, chanting the song of
farewell, entered the square. He was met by out
cries. Some of the young men would have laid hand
on him. To the cries and the violence he paid no
heed, walking to the center of the square with face
raised to the sky and the song on his lips.

11 Listen!" he said, from the center, sweeping his
eye about him as he turned to face them all in suc
cession. "Hear the White Eagle before he goes.
When the night comes the White Eagle will be gone.

40 A Knight of the Wilderness

He will chant his morning song to the sun in the
forests, far from the lodges of his people. His
mother's lodge shall know him no more; no more
will his voice be heard in the council or the dance;
no more will he ride to the hunt with his brothers.
He sings the song of farewell. But before he goes,
let the brothers of the Eagle listen to what he will
tell them.

"The White Eagle has been brave in the hunt
and on the war path. The young men of the Sacs
have said so; the old braves have looked with kind
eyes upon him. His spear is long; his arrows are
true ; his feet are swift in the war path ; many scalps
dangle at his belt, though he is small in years. Never
has the liver of the Eagle turned soft in danger;
never has foe seen his back; the bear and the
panther have fled from his knife — this his people
knew. But now his people, the people of his father
and his father 's father, have turned their faces from
him. Now, in the setting of a sun, their fingers have
been crooked against him. He goes from the land
of his people, from before the faces of his brother,
to make his bed with the wolves and to lie in the
caves of the hills. But before he goes, let his
brothers listen to what he tells them.

"For the Law of the Blood went he forth to the
land of the Ihoways, singing his death song. His
brother had slain ; his brother could not go to fulfil
the law between our people and the people of the
Ihoways that says 'blood of the blood for blood.*

Lovelight 41

The White Eagle went that the Law of the Blood
should be fulfilled ; that the word of the Sauk should
not stand as naught in the ears of the Ihoways.

"He came to their village with the young men
who went forth with him. Singing his death song he
went among the Ihoways. Singing his death song he
held out his hands, making the sign of the Law of the
Blood. The young men who were with him, singing
no song, turned their backs and went again to their
people. White Eagle, singing his song, was among
the Ihoways.

' ' They bound him to a stake. They built a fire at
his feet. They shouted about him with spears and
hatchets when the fire burned. The White Eagle
made no cry. On his lips were the words of his death
song, raised to the Great Spirit; in his heart was
gladness, for he was fulfilling the law. The fire
burned his feet; — look, you may see" — the lower
part of his limbs were seared and sore. * ' They struck
him with their spears ; — look, you may see" — he laid
open his shirt of doeskin; there were red wounds
upon his breast and shoulders. "They danced the
dance of death about him. He made no cry ; for was
he not a Sauk, fulfilling the word of the Sacs?

"The fire burned. The spears struck him. His
strength went away. He hung limp in the cords that
bound him. His voice was raised in the song of
death. His eyes gazed into their eyes ; for the White
Eagle is a Sauk, and knows how a Sauk should die.
At the last, when death was upon him, the braves of

42 A Knight of the Wilderness

the Ihoways raised a mighty shout. 'He is too brave
to die!' they cried. 'It was his brother who slew.
The law is fulfilled!'

' 'They stamped out the fires that burned him.
They threw down the spears that made him bleed.
They unbound the thongs of deer skin. With much
shouting they led him to the wigwam of the chief of
the village. For a day they made honor to him, hail
ing him, dancing and singing before the door of the
wigwam ; the squaw of the chief healed his wounds.
When they were healed, they led him forth and bade
him go to the village of his people with honor upon
him ; a score of their young men went with him even
to the Father of Waters.

"He came again among his people with a glad
heart, for life is sweet to him. The eyes of the chief
fell aslant upon him; the eyes of old warriors shut
upon him ; the young men made a mock of him ; chil
dren of squaws howled at his heels ; young maidens
turned their faces; his brother reviled him; his
mother moaned that he had come back. He who had
been brave among them was treated as a coward.
He who was the son of a chief was made a mock of
by children of young squaws. His people turned
against him ; they believed his liver was soft in the
face of death ; that he had fled from the Ihoways and
the Law of Blood.

"Now the White Eagle goes forth from the home
of his fathers ; from the village of the Sacs and the
Foxes, his brothers. His lodge shall be the oak tree

Lovelight 43

in the forest; the elm and the maple shall be his
wigwam. The squirrel and the thrush will be his
companions ; with the squirrel shall he eat nuts from
the tall trees; his voice shall be raised to the sun
with the voice of the thrush. The home of his people
shall know him no more ; for his people have turned
away their eyes in the hour of his honor. They did
not know. Now they have heard. The White Eagle
will go."

Passionately he sang his song to them. The war
riors stood in silence, listening. The women pressed
behind them to hear, hushing their babes. His voice
intoning his story was the only sound, save the
rustling of the distant waters of the Father of
Waters and the call of the cat-bird upon the Tower.

As he proceeded, the eyes of the braves kindled
with interest; they lighted with the excitement of
listening to a tale of bravery. The women whispered
softly and drew closer to one another, dreaming
dreams for the babes that were on their arms. Apart
from them, in the solitude she had sought, half
hidden behind the drooping branches of a maple, a
beautiful Indian maiden looked on and listened, with
a heart that beat like the wings of a bird flying to its
mate. Her eyes were like stars reflected in the bosom
of a deep and tranquil sea.

As his voice died into stillness a mighty acclaim
went up from the assembled braves. With shouts
that shook the Tower they closed about him ; for the
White Eagle had ever been dear to the hearts of his

44 A Knight of the Wilderness

people ; their joy was great in his tale. Among them
pressed the Black Hawk. His eyes snapped with
happiness. He laid hand upon the shoulder of the
White Eagle, who still chanted his farewell song,
returning the acclamations of his brothers with
haughty eye.

"The White Eagle will stay with his people,"
said Black Hawk. "He will have much honor; he
will be made a chief among them ; for the bravery of
the White Eagle is the bravery of the Sauk; his
honor will be high among his people; love will be
his in the hearts of the Sacs and their brothers the
Foxes."

A great shout burst forth at the words of the
chief. The Eagle looked upon faces that glowed with
love for him ; into eyes that gleamed their pride in a
Sauk brave. He looked upon the countenances of
women, turned to him in wide-eyed admiration. He
looked upon the face of an Indian maiden of sur
passing loveliness, all alight with adoration, in
among the leaves of a drooping maple.

"The White Eagle will stay," he said, his eyes
floating as they gazed among the leaves of the
drooping maple.

He hastened to the lodge of Light Foot, his
mother, to tell her. He found her sitting on the
floor of her lodge, casting dust upon her locks. In
a corner, glaring spitefully, with eyes that burned
with firewater, lay Half Ear in a huddled heap.

"Ah, who hath taught my son, the White Eagle,

Lovelight 45

to lie!" moaned the woman. "Who hath taught the
White Eagle his lies!"

He saluted her. She made no response, save to
repeat in louder voice, ' ' Who hath taught the White
Eagle his lies!"

The young brave turned a pitying look from her
to the one who lay groveling in drink in the corner
of the lodge, and left to join the young men in their
games. But his heart was not in them; his heart
was in among the leaves of the drooping maple,
dwelling on the vision of the face he had seen there,
aglow with a light which set him afire. Weary were
the games; heavy were the hours until the night;
eager was his soul for the twilight.

For this was the eve of the Crane Dance; the
night of wooing among the Sacs ; the night when the
young braves sought out their well beloved and
made the test of fire. On this night he might enter
her lodge without hindrance from her father's spear.
He might kneel where she slept and place the light
at her side. If the light burned on, she loved him
not ; if that she breathed upon the light and it flut
tered out, it was that she loved him; and on the
morrow he might come to the door of her father's
lodge with his love song, and she would come forth
to him, to be his bride in the Crane Dance. Thence
forth they would be wed. Such was the custom
among them from the time when they dwelt by the
frozen river of the North, before the Iroquois drove
them forth.

46 A Knight of the Wilderness

It was dusk. Many lights gleamed and flickered
through the village. A hush was upon the lodges
and in the streets. One could almost hear the faint
rush of the flames as they climbed from the tiny
torches into the still night air.

A rustling at the door of the lodge of Light Foot !
A light breaking into the dusk that was about the
lodge ! A tall, graceful figure poised for an instant
before the door, till the light should burn steadily and
surely ! It was the White Eagle.

With eager step he pressed along the open way.
Other lights he passed, but paid no heed. It was the
solemn pretense among them all — lovers, loved ones,
and those who dwelt in the lodges with the beloved —
to pay no heed.

Swiftly he stole toward the lodge of Black Hawk
at the end of the village, toward the lodge of Feather
Heart. Soft footsteps were about him; tiny blurs
of light melted the dusk. He paid no heed.

His shadow danced off into the darkness, pro
jected by the flickering light he carried. So his heart
danced as he hastened toward the lodge of Feather
Heart.

He was before the door. He stopped. He hesi
tated. The courage of the Sauk was within him;
but he paused.

His hand was upon the mat of rushes that hung
in the doorway. He raised it. He entered. His
light glowed within the lodge of the Black Hawk;
the lodge of Feather Heart.

Lovelight 47

He passed among the sleepers. No eyelid was
raised. That had been their pretense, from the time
their fathers had dwelt by the frozen banks of the
Northern river.

Past the sleeping form of the chief he went.
Past the members of his household, stopping and
stooping to search among them as he went. Past
them all to where Feather Heart lay.

Her head was pillowed upon her arm; her soft
and slender arm. Her black hair fell across it, and
across her throat ; her throat like the leaf of a wild
rose, new blown. Her long lashes lay along her
cheeks; her cheeks with a glow of warmth beneath
the dusk. She breathed rapidly for one who slept!
Perchance she dreamed!

He reached toward her. He set the light close
to her face. Never before had the hand of the Eagle
trembled in deed that he did.

" Lovelight hath lighted me to thy side," he
whispered. "I bring you the flame of love on the
end of a torch, daughter of a chief. Open thy lips
and breath it into thy heart!"

She opened her eyes. The Light of Love was dim
beside the light within them. She rested them upon
the countenance of the White Eagle. Slowly, with
glances clinging to him, she closed her lids. Her lips
parted. She breathed upon the light. It flickered
for a space, leaped, and went out.

With a heart that bounded within him, the White
Eagle made his way from the lodge of Feather
Heart.

CHAPTER IV
THE MAN WITH HAIR OF BRONZE

THE chant to dawn floated weird and mystic
across the flood of the Father of Waters from
the village of Saukenuk. It was the morning of the
Crane Dance; the morning of the day when the
young men and the maidens wed among the Sacs.
With the first pink of sunlight the lovers were
already astir. They gathered on the green between
the lodges, chanting their love songs soft and low
to their beloved, still asleep in the lodges of their
fathers.

Smoke came from the houses of the village, curl
ing faintly blue against the still fainter blue of the
early June sky. The birds awoke in the trees; the
thrush made melody upon the hill; the cat-bird,
ceasing her mournful plaint, rejoiced in the thicket.
The river in its rocky bed made them accompani
ment. The sun rose singing over the northern spur
of the Watchtower. The day of the Dance of the
Crane was at hand.

Swiftly, with flute in hand, the young braves
sped whither their hearts leaped before them. Each
at the door of his beloved made soft music on his
flute; the music of the love song of the Sacs. The

48

The Man With Hair of Bronze 49

mingled strain from a hundred lodges lifted through
the soft morning air into the blue sky.

Pretty was it to see how the father of the be
loved, a grizzled warrior, came forth from his lodge
with a show of seeing who it was that made music at
the door, and why; pretty to see how the mother
came behind him, pressing close to learn. Pleasant
was it to hear the notes of the love song turn into
discord when they came to the door; pleasant to
hear the love song spring again from the flute when
the mat in the doorway had fallen behind their
retreating figures.

Beautiful was it to behold the maiden, coming at
last to the door, blushing like the morning, with eyes
that dared not meet her lover's-; with hand that
reached trembling into his to be led forth from her
father's lodge. Beautiful to watch them hastening
to the green that ran between the houses, hand in
hand, close, silent, glowing.

From a hundred lodges they came to join in the
dance. In the whole village not a face was to be seen
save the faces of the lovers. In the whole village
the doors of the lodges were closed. Those neither
lovers nor beloved might not fare forth this morn.
So had it been since the time when their fathers'
fathers had dwelt along the frozen river of the
North, before the Iroquois drove them forth.

The White Eagle, in a dress of deerskin, em
broidered with quill and bead, the feathers of the
eagle in his hair, stood at the door of the lodge of

50 A Knight of the Wilderness

the chieftain; at the door of the lodge of Feather
Heart, daughter of a chief. On his flute he played
the love song, or sang with his lips to his beloved.

"Daughter of morning, thy lover awaits thee;
Child of a chieftain, come forth from the lodge !
Cheeks like the wild rose that blows in the summer,

Teeth like the snowflake and throat like the swan,
Eyes like the stars in the stark nights of winter,

Hair like the midnight and smile like the dawn !
Come ! For thy beauty shall conquer the morning !
Come ! 'Tis the day of the Dance of the Crane !

"Daughter of morning, thy lover awaits thee !
Son of a chieftain, come forth to his lodge!
Mighty in hunting and swift in the war-path,

Keen is his hatchet and stalwart his bow;
Flesh of the deer and the quail will he bring thee,

Skin of the young of the beaver and doe.
Come ! For his lodge and his right arm will shelter !
Come! 'Tis the day of the Dance of the Crane!"

A stirring of the mat that hung in the door of
her father's lodge, and it was lifted aside! With
downcast eyes, all alight with love; with lips that
trembled into a smile, like the new leaves of the rose
when the breezes of June kiss them, she stood before
him. Without a word, they passed hand in hand to
the green in the center of the village ; to the Dance
of the Crane, with no eye upon them ; for that was
the sacred custom of the Sacs from the first time
whence their legends sprung.

The Man With Hair of Bronze 51

One eye there was that saw them; the glinting,
bloodshot eye of Half Ear. He was returning to the
village from his friends the whites, drunken and
shattered. He stood in the eastern gate as they
passed through the village. He looked upon them
with evil in his face as they went hand in hand.
Without entering the gate, he turned and went back
the way he had corne, as swiftly as he could, for the
liquor gripped his legs.

It was night before he returned again to the
lodge of his mother, where Light Foot sat alone in
the darkness, repining for the honor that had passed
over the head of her beloved son to rest upon him
of the hollow heart, the teller of lies. The White
Eagle had gone to another lodge with his bride, the
daughter of a chieftain.

From that day forth Half Ear slunk among his
people, more and more like a cur that was whipped.
He went no more among the whites, but clung to the
door of his mother's lodge, save when he wandered
through the village behind the houses to the gate
that led to the river, and so out to the last point
of land, to sit between the two rivers with gaze
fixed upon the sweeping expanse of waters swinging
between their banks below.

It was mid-June. The women had gone to the
planting, hoeing their corn in the fields about the
village. The young men were hunting in the forests ;
the old men sat about on the grass beneath the trees,
smoking their pipes, telling of deeds that had been

52 A Knight of the Wilderness

done in the days that were past. The Eagle had
gone forth with the young men to the hunt. Feather
Heart awaited his return on the top of the Watch-
tower; for the daughter of the chief went not into
the fields to hoe.

Half Ear, sitting on the last point of land with
eyes fixed down the river, arose hastily and stole
toward the village with averted look, like one who
had done murder. At the gate he paused to look
behind him. A thin trace of yellow smoke, ascend
ing from beyond the last point of land where it
could be seen, arose across the fair blue of the sky.
Peering cautiously into the village to make sure he
had not been seen, he turned from the gate and crept
close behind the palisade of brush to the point near
est the trail to the Tower. From thence he made
haste until he vanished within the arch of foliage
that marked the foot of the trail.

Scarcely had he disappeared from sight before a
sound came over the swinging current of the Father
of Waters that was a sound of terror to the ears of
those in the village. It was the sound of something
coughing and sputtering through the water beyond
the bend, like a great monster that swam, choking as
it swam. The breath of the monster lay yellow and
thick across the sky.

Warriors flocked to the lodge of Black Hawk,
their chief. With gun and spear in hand, with
hatchet and knife in belt, with horn and pouch slung
on their shoulders they came, awaiting his command.

The Man With Hair of Bronze 53

The women, working in the fields, arose and hurried
into the village, hearing the sound and seeing the
yellow breath across the sky ; children in their play
hushed and drew near the lodges of their mothers.
A call went forth to the young men who had gone to
the hunting. Dread was in the heart of all; of all
save the Black Hawk.

With his warriors pressing about, he went to the
gate that led to the water, with eyes fixed upon the
whirling expanse of river below. Something huge
and black; something that breathed yellow flames
with a horrid hissing noise, something that groaned
and moaned, came into view about the bend in the
river. A low cry of terror went up from the lodges
where the women- cowered. The men drew nearer
their chief, wide-eyed, waiting.

1 ' 'Tis the smoke canoe of the whites, ' ' quoth the
Hawk. * ' See ! It bears the warriors of the Great
Father ! The sun flashes from their guns. They go
to the White Beaver in his fort above. ' '

As it drew nearer, slowly urging through the
pressing waters, those who watched could see the
soldiers crowding about the rail of the steamer.
Their eyes were fixed on the shore, where the braves
of the Sacs and the Foxes stood grouped. The sun
sparkled among their guns.

Slowly the smoke canoe came closer. The braves
gathered about their chief looked into his face for
sign of command, with their hands stiffening about
their guns and their spears. The steamer drew

54 A Knight of the Wilderness

abreast the point, laying its course in shore. The
hissing and the groaning ceased. The vessel stopped.
Black Hawk answered the nmrnmrings of his braves
with a look of stern command.

A flag of truce fluttered from the gaff of the
steamboat. Black Hawk made answer with a sign
of peace. The water about the craft swarmed with
small boats, hastily put over. They were filled with
soldiers. They came to the point of land. The sol
diers debarked, and marched toward the gate where
the chief stood among his warriors. "With firm eye
he bade his braves withhold.

At the head marched one splendid in blue coat
with yellow buttons, and with crusted yellow upon
his shoulders. At the side of him marched Keokuk,
a chief of the Sacs, who, for the sake of peace to his
people, had led them across the Father of Waters at
the word of the Great Father.

"General Gaines, a chief of the Great Father,
has come to the Black Hawk, to tell him that the
Great Father bids him depart to the land beyond the
Father of Waters," said the Indian, in the Sauk
tongue, acting as interpreter; for the Hawk was
ignorant of English. "It were wise for the Hawk
to obey the wish of the Great Father."

Black Hawk listened, a look of scorn on his sharp
features. When the other was done, he made a sign
that they should follow, and entered his lodge. Keo
kuk, General Gaines, officers who were with him;
braves high in the councils of the Sacs, made solemn

The Man With Hair of Bronze 55

and silent procession behind him. Their voices
sounded through the length and breadth of the
village.

The soldiers, left without the building, loitered
about the village whither their curiosity and courage
led them, staring at the Indians and poking and pry
ing into the lodges. They were regulars and militia,
hastily gathered on a sudden alarm. They were ill-
equipped, the militia were undisciplined and inex
perienced ; but they were in sufficient force to enable
their commander to do the will of the Great Father
with the Indians.

Among them was a young man of fair skin which
the winds and sun could not darken. His eyes were
brown, soft and warm ; his hair, straying across his
pale brow, was the color of bronze ; his lips were full,
his chin firm, his jaws well set. Silent, watchful, he
looked with a pity in his eye upon the women and
children huddled in dumb terror; upon the groups
of warriors, sullen and stolid.

Near him was a short, round man with a short,
round head fitting close to his body ; with prominent
blue eyes set at a distance apart in a face of fiery
red; short, round, red hands on short, round arms.
He passed about among the Indians restlessly; his
glances searched their faces with impatient eager
ness. He peered into the distant parts of the village,
cursing with disappointment when he failed to see
what he sought.

As he looked, there came a low cry from among

56 A Knight of the Wilderness

the women crouching close by. One of them, a
comely young squaw with a frank face and gentle
eye, came to him. In her arms was a babe of less
than a year. The skin of the infant was dark, but
not so dark as the skin of the woman, its mother.
She held it forth to the white man. Her gentle eyes
appealed wistfully to him. She spoke to him, softly,
in the Sauk tongue. The man, startled to see her,
answered her harshly in her own language. It was
not she whom he sought !

She spoke again. There was hungry pleading in
her tone. The man replied savagely, in a burst of
anger. He raised his arm to strike her.

In the instant that he did, with the swift grace
of a panther, he of the bronze hair laid hand on the
upraised arm.

"Frake, what are you doing!" he said. His
voice was calm and contained.

The other turned upon him.

"I don't know that it is any of your business!"
he growled.

"We can discuss that afterward, if you like,"
returned the one of the brown eyes and well set
jaws. "For the present, I'll make it my affair.
Don't strike that woman!"

The softness went out of the brown eyes as he
said it; his voice, still calm and contained, was
raised a shade. The one whom he had called Frake
glared at him, his blue eyes standing farther from
his head.

The Man With Hair of Bronze 57

"Yes! You're the feller that's been preachin'
all the way about givin' the Indian his rights!" he
sneered. "You're the feller that tried to block the
expedition in the first place, ain't you? You seem
to care a pile for these dirty redskins, you do ! How
long have you been protector of the Indians ? Hey?' '

A knot of militia had gathered about the center
of disturbance; for the querulous voice of Frake
sounded through the village.

"Yes; you're right," returned the other, answer
ing the asseverations of Frake. "I am sorry for the
Indians. I am sorry we came here. But that has
nothing to do with her." He inclined his head to
where the squaw stood, shrinking and apprehensive.
She seemed to fear lest harm should come to the
white man who would have struck her — which is the
way of woman the world over. "She was a woman
before she was an Indian!"

Frake 's face curled into a low leer. He looked
about at the soldiers who had gathered, winking at
them.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" he sneered, with obvious
significance, and walked away, leaving the soldiers
chuckling and grinning at his repartee.

The other paid no heed to the implied insult,
beyond a contemptuous glance at the snickering
yokels surrounding him. His attention was fixed on
the man who had sought to quarrel with him. He
watched him closely, with shrewd eye. Watching
him, he saw him stop abruptly in the search he was

58 A Knight of the Wilderness

surreptitiously making among the Indians, and
fasten his gaze upon the eastern gate of the village.
Standing in the gate he saw an Indian; a sinister,
forbidding Indian, with thin, sharp, crooked face;
with eyes close together, which seemed to look at
divergent objects ; with little ears, of which one was
half cut away.

He saw Frake hasten toward this Indian stand
ing in the gate, stealing behind intervening houses
to make his progress as inconspicuous as possible.
He saw him come to the side of the Indian and speak
with him; their heads close together, their eyes
avoiding each other's face. Watching still, he saw
them pass from the gate across an intervening open
space toward a high hill to the eastward. In the
foliage at the base of the hill was an archway of
limbs and leaves. Beneath it was the trail. The
man, watching, saw them disappear in the trail
through the archway.

As he was about to withdraw his gaze, wonder
ing whether it might not be best to follow, he saw
another figure creep swiftly across the open space
toward the hill, and disappear within the archway;
the figure of the woman with the babe. Perplexed,
he was consulting with himself to determine what
he ought to do, when a man at his elbow spoke
to him.

"Who's your friend?" asked the man. He
turned. It was William Hall, one of the militia men.
His face was twisted into a facetious grin.

The Man With Hair of Bronze 59

"That is Isaac Frake, Hall," returned the one
addressed, still revolving in his mind the problem
that had presented itself. "I thought you knew him.
I have seen you talking with him. He is a settler
hereabouts. It was he who brought in the alarm and
prevailed upon General Gaines to come here. ' '

"Oh, I don't mean him!" chortled the militia
man. * * I mean your friend, the squaw ! ' '

The man with the bronze hair ignored him. "Wil
liam Hall, not used to finesse in his communica
tions with his fellows, mistook the dignified rebuke
for an indication of embarrassment and a confused
conscience.

* * You seem to be mighty fond of the Indians I ' '
he ventured, slyly grinning behind his hand.

* * I am sorry for them, ' ' returned the other, pre
occupied.

"Yes ; especially for the women!"

The man of the bronze hair, thinking of what he
had seen, made no response. Hall, chuckling com
placently over his supposed success, essayed again.

"Seen a good deal of 'em, hain't yer!" he asked.

"Enough to have charity for them." He paid
little heed to the bumpkin ; he was not aware of the
point of the other's badgering.

" 'Specially for the women?" Hall was making
the most of it.

There was no response.

"Been here long?" went on Hall, with an elabo-

60 A Knight of the Wilderness

rate project of bringing the other to ultimate con
fusion.

"I have been connected with the Indian agency
headquarters at Jefferson Barracks for some
months, Hall, ' ' returned his unconscious victim.

What barbed point William Hall sought to im
pale the man upon, and what his success would have
been, can never be determined, for before he could
frame the next question in the projected series the
object of his pungent designs departed from his side
with startling abruptness, and was speeding toward
the arched trail, where he presently disappeared.

The man of the bronze hair had made up his
mind. Whatever lay behind the journey of Frake to
the hill, no harm could come from his following, and
he might do much in the way of good. He grew
anxious at the thought of what might befall the
Indian if she encountered the brute along in the hill ;
with the army behind him he would hesitate at little.
He was convinced that the woman had gone to seek
out the man.

Thinking these things, he hurried up the trail.
Hastening, he heard someone coming swiftly toward
him with soft step. He turned a corner of the hill.
In the trail before him was the Indian woman. Her
face was eager and apprehensive. At sight of the
man, she gave a little cry of relief.

"Raven Hair came to seek you," she said, in
broken English. "The pale face is the friend of
Eaven Hair. Will he come? There is need for him.

The Man With Hair of Bronze 61

The heart of the woman who loves is wise; she
knows there is need for him!"

Impressed by the earnestness of the woman's
manner and already wrought upon by his own
thoughts, the man bade her proceed. She made no
delay. Turning in the trail, she hastened upward.
He followed, impatient of its windings, striving to
peer through the foliage to penetrate the future.

In their ascent they approached a level place on
a shoulder of the hill where the thicket receded from
the trail, leaving an opening between the oaks. As
they came close to it the woman, making a sign for
silence, went forward and peered through the edge
of the thicket along the trail. Making another sign,
she glided into the open space.

In the center of it, sitting on the ground, leaning
against a tree, was an Indian ; a pitiful, craven sav
age. In his lap was a bottle. The Indian was croon
ing to the bottle drunkenly. Half of his right ear
was gone. It was the Indian whom the white man
had seen go with Frake. Eaven Hair, the squaw
with the papoose, came behind him like a shadow
and placed a hand upon his drooping shoulder.

"Half Ear will stay with Eaven Hair," she said,
as he struggled to rise to his feet, surprised and
confounded. "The pale face would walk upon the
hill."

She directed the white man with a nod to the
point where the trail left the opening. Making sure
that the woman would be able to detain the wretched

62 A Knight of the Wilderness

savage by sheer moral strength, he hastened up
the trail.

He was not long in coming to where the crest of
the hill broke rough against the sky. As he came
near the top, he heard voices; a man's voice, harsh
and angry, and another, that of a woman, clear as a
bugle, defiant, thrilling. The one he recognized as
that of Frake. The other he had never heard.

The sound of them sent him running up the trail,
which was now more gradual. The thicket opened
again, at the very summit. In the center of the
space, his back toward him, was Frake. Confront
ing him, with flashing eye and quivering nostril;
slight, beautiful, sinuous, bristling; a panther at
bay; an incensed goddess of the woods, was an
Indian maiden of a loveliness which he had never
before seen in maiden — save only once.

They spoke in the Sauk tongue. He could not
understand. From their tone and their manner he
knew that the man threatened; that the maiden
defied him. He kept closer, looking the while to the
knife in his belt. The Indian saw him. She under
stood, and made no sign. The voice of the man rose
louder. The eyes of the maiden were pits of fire.

"Curse your pretty hide, Feather Heart!" cried
the man, in English, which she could not understand.
"If you won't come one way you will another!"

He had lost all restraint. His voice was a hoarse
roar. He grasped the girl by the waist. He placed

The Man With Hair of Bronze 63

one thick hand over her mouth to prevent an outcry.
She struggled to no purpose.

The man with hair of bronze leaped upon the
broad back of the other. With one motion he tore
the hand of Frake from the waist of the maiden;
with another he flung him to the ground; with
another was upon him, pinioning him, face in the
dust.

" Frake,'* he said, deliberately, "in Virginia,
where I came from, they would hang a man for this.
Things seem to be different out this way. ' '

The man on the ground, wriggling and cursing,
tried to release himself.

"Now, don't squirm, Frake; I don't want to be
severe with you," counseled the one who held him.
At the words he pressed the point of his knife per
suasively against the red neck of the man. Cursing
still and muttering threats, Frake subsided, and was
permitted to arise.

Gaming his feet, he looked toward the Indian
girl, abashed and discomfited. Glancing at her,
the prominent eyes swelled in his head, his face
blanched, his jaw dropped into its creases of fat, his
knees shook. He groaned as though he saw a ghost.
The other, whose eyes had not left him for fear of
treachery, glanced to see what was the cause of
his terror.

Standing at the side of the girl, his arm about
her, was a young Indian brave, tall, lithe, alert,
enraged, physically beautiful. His eyes were

64 A Knight of the Wilderness

alternately upon one pale face and the other. The
Indian girl, clinging to him, whispered in his ear.
In an instant the Indian leaped upon Frake with a
yell of rage. One hand gripped the great red throat.
The other brandished a knife.

Before he could strike, he of the bronze hair was
between them. One hand he raised high in the air,
fingers extended, palm forward, making a sign of
peace. With the other he grasped the brawny wrist
of the savage with a grip that partially loosened his
hold upon the knife. Fixing the Indian with earnest
eyes, he shook his head. Frake, abandoning himself
to fate and fear, made no sound or sign.

The Indian, with flashing eye and dilating nostril,
gazed savagely at the one who interfered. The
brown eyes of the white man, calm, intense, com
manding, returned the look. The slight hand of
Feather Heart, stealing along the naked arm of the
warrior to the hand that held the knife, restrained
him. Without relinquishing his hold upon the neck
of Frake, he lowered his hand and sheathed his
knife.

The white, by signs, led him to the hill over
looking the town of Saukenuk, still holding Frake by
the throat, and showed him the soldiers there. Look
ing at Frake and shaking his head once more with
the gesture and expression of one who gives advice,
he left the three at the top of the hill. It was no
longer his affair. The hand of the Indian was still
upon the throat of the pale face.

The Man With Hair of Bronze 65

William Hall, idling among the Indians in the
village of Saukenuk while the chiefs of the whites
and the Sacs held council, in the course of time saw
two figures emerge from the arch of foliage that
marked the trail to the high hill on the eastern side
of the village. One of them was the Indian woman
with the baby whose skin was paler than the skin of
its mother. The other was the man from Virginia.
Seeing them, and being a man of circumscribed dis
cernment, William Hall turned on his heel with a
sagacious chuckle and continued to idle among the
Indians while the council went forward.

On the morning of the next day Black Hawk took
his people with him and departed in many canoes
across the waters of the Father of Waters. On the
evening of the next day the sun, sinking red into the
west, looked aslant upon red, smouldering heaps of
ruins where had stood the city of the Sacs ; the grey
moon, arising, looked down upon grey ashes over
which smoke ghosts flitted mournfully through the
deserted night.

The Great Father had had his will with the
Indian !

CHAPTER V
THE FRONTIER CLERK

DENTON OFFUTT was as good as his word.
He set up a store in New Salem, as he said he
would on the morning when his tall and angular
boatman worked his flat-boat over Cameron's dam,
and placed the same tall and angular boatman in the
store as clerk.

It was not long until Abraham Lincoln was one
of the community. It was not long until he was
much more than the least one of the little 'settlement
whither he had drifted. Genial, mild, even tem
pered, huge of hand and great of heart, with a brain
that had as many droll angles as his frame and fea
tures, he grew apace into the affections and esteem
of the good people of New Salem.

They were glad when he was with them. They
liked to go to Offutt's store to hear him discuss the
events of the day with the wiseacres of the town.
They enjoyed his pungent comments. They appre
ciated his hard sense. They delighted in his whim
sical humor. They rehearsed and repeated the
stories he told from behind the counter or over the
supper table at Eutledge's Inn, where he boarded,
until his fame had gone abroad through the country.

If Abe Lincoln knew the popularity that was

66

The Frontier Clerk 67

come upon him, he gave no indication of it. Modest,
pleasant to all, he held his head straight and his
heart clear through the little attentions frankly and
ingenuously thrust upon him by his new friends. All
who came shared in his sentiment toward his fel
lows, which was large and comprehensive. Always
was he kind and generous, without favor or preju
dice. And always there was about him the intangi
ble, elusive sadness which had baffled them when
they had seen him that first morning in the boat on
Cameron's dam.

It was a day in July. The little village on the
top of the hill by the river lay asleep in the noon
sun. Not a stir of life was abroad in the heat. All
was hushed, save the plashing of the stream where
it trickled over Cameron's dam, having shrunk from
the torrent of April. Offutt's store was deserted of
all excepting Abe Lincoln, who sat on the counter,
legs dangling like strings, reading a book. Presently
he closed it with a bang and put it upon the shelf.
Exclaiming against the heat and mopping his brow,
he went to the door of the tavern in search of a
breath of air.

A man on horseback was in front of the store.
The horse was drinking at the trough. The long
clerk glanced at the man and the horse casually.
The animal was a beautiful roan creature, fine of
limb, deep of chest, with classic head and neck ; such
a horse as he had seen but once. He looked at the
rider more attentively. The man raised his head

68 A Knight of the Wilderness

from watching his animal drink, and looked full
upon the clerk. It was he who had brought the
auger to the stranded boat on Cameron's dam.

"Why, howdy, stranger," said Lincoln, cor
dially. "Traveling!"

"Hello, mariner," returned the other, recogniz
ing the angular clerk at once. "Ashore at last, are
you?"

There was a good-natured raillery in the tone,
which Lincoln caught at once.

"Now, see here, stranger," he returned, with
mock severity, "I can't allow any allusions to my
seamanship. It wasn't my fault in the least that
we got aground on that dam. The trouble was with
the dam. It stuck too far up into the water."

The man on the horse, laughing, inquired if he
could bait his animal there; "Powhatan," he called
him. He was told that he could. He dismounted,
led the horse into the shade of a tree, removed the
saddle, rubbed the wet back, felt of its withers to
make sure it was not too warm to be fed, gave it
grain, and passed into the store. Lincoln, watch
ing his care of the animal with an approving eye,
passed in behind him.

"I am going to eat some bread and cheese
myself, if you can furnish me with it," said the
young man.

The clerk could, and did, and the man sat down
to eat by the door, where any breath of air that
was stirring might be expected to reach him.

The Frontier Clerk 69

"What news, stranger?" inquired the elongated
clerk, at length, contemplating him as he ate the
cheese and bread.

"My name is Mortimer Randolph, " suggested
the stranger, with unaffected courtesy. Lincoln
made himself known, and they nodded on the new
basis.

"I suppose you have heard accounts of the
expulsion of Black Hawk from his village on the
Rock River?" ventured the traveler.

"Some," assented the clerk, laconically.

"I have recently come from Jefferson Bar
racks," continued Randolph. "I was informed
there that the squatters, for whose benefit the Indi
ans were expelled, were able to buy only one sec
tion of land between them when it was put on sale."

Lincoln, in sudden agitation, came close to the
stranger.

"I don't know how you feel about it," he said,
with some emotion, "but I think they used the old
man badly. The time will come when Illinois will
be ashamed of her dealings with Black Hawk!"

"The time cannot come too soon for the fair
name of your State," observed the other, in reply.

Lincoln, still wrought up, paced the puncheon
floor of the store, among the barrels and boxes.
As he walked his feet struck flat and firm, heel and
toe at the same time.

"The oppression of a weak people by a strong
is a thing abhorrent to my soul," he went on, half

70 A Knight of the Wilderness

forgetting the presence of the stranger in an obses
sion of feeling. "I was in New Orleans this spring.
I saw negroes in chains there, beaten and scourged.
I saw a girl sold on the block. The bidders pinched
her flesh between their fingers ; the auctioneer made
her run up and down the room before the men who
were buying her! By God!" — he raised his face
upward ; he lifted his clenched fist above him ; it was
more a prayer than a curse — "by God! If ever I
get a chance to hit that thing, I '11 hit it hard ! ' '

The man who was eating looked fixedly upon
him. Over Lincoln's homely, grotesque features,
into the eyes of sadness had come a radiance that
was sublime, that made him beautiful. For a space
he continued to pace the floor. Presently he con
fronted the traveler. He smiled consciously down
at him.

" Perhaps you don't agree with me?" he sub
mitted.

The other arose from his seat. He looked fully
into the face of the towering pioneer for a moment
in silence.

"I am from Virginia," he said at last. "My
father owned slaves." He paused. "That is why
I came here," he added. With that he passed from
the room, to attend to his horse.

As he left, some one stood aside in the doorway
to let him by. Absorbed, he only saw that it was
a woman. Without heeding who it was, he raised
his hat and made way, craving her pardon with a

The Frontier Clerk 71

display of manners rare in those parts. The
woman murmured acknowledgment as he was mov
ing away. The sound of the voice — soft, rich, melo
dious — arrested him. He turned in some surprise
to hear such a one there. Turning, his eyes looked
into the eyes of blue that he had seen on the morn
ing in April when he had come that way; the eyes
that had followed him over the hill as he rode
away; the eyes that had looked at him out of his
dreams since that morning in spring, that had
peeped at him through the clouds in the sky. As
he gazed she passed into the store.

A group of young men stood about his horse as
he approached it, his mind awhirl with what he had
seen. They were teasing the animal; poking it in
the ribs, tweaking its tail, pulling its ears; seeking
in a variety of ways to arouse it to a demonstra
tion of temper. As Eandolph came among them,
Powhatan, whinnying softly, rubbed his nose against
his master's sleeve. It brought him to his first
realization of the presence of the others.

11 Howdy, stranger!"

One of the men, apparently the leader of them,
a big, rough, burly man, saluted him. "Fine ani
mal you 've got there; is his tail on good and
tight ? " he added, giving the horse 's tail a vigorous
pull.

The crowd of young fellows roared at the wit
of their leader. The man with hair of bronze made
no sign of anger.

72 A Knight of the Wilderness

"I '11 have to ask you not to abuse the horse,"
he said to the bully, in even tone.

"You '11 have to do more than ask me, I reckon,
stranger," retorted the man, in a tone of rough
insult, and an accompanying epithet.

"Very well," rejoined the other, peacefully.

A white fist flashed across the astonished vision
of the spectators. A dull sound of flesh on flesh
came to their ears. Their leader, with a grunt,
sank to the ground. He gained his feet before he
was entirely prostrate, with a mighty oath. Another
fist whipped through the air. The man fell heavily
between the feet of the horse. The animal, nicker
ing nervously, laid its velvet nose on his master's
shoulders.

The man, extricating himself, arose once more.
His comrades, cursing and shouting, rushed upon
the Virginian, where he stood with his back toward
his steed. One, two, three, they fell before his fists.
But they were too many. By force of numbers, they
came inside the range of his blows. They grappled
him. Their hands clung to his arms ; their fists beat
him upon his face and body. Without a sound he
fought back as best he could against the hopeless
odds.

A low, anxious cry from the door of the store,
the cry of a woman, reached his ears. Making shift
to look through a shower of blows, where he was
the center of a swirling mass of men, Randolph
saw her in the doorway; saw the look of distress,

The Frontier Clerk 73

of anxiety, in the eyes, heard the cry again from
the parted lips. With a burst of strength and
agility he wrenched from their grasps, obstructed
as they were in their fighting by the very numbers
that gave them advantage. Before they had time
to renew the onslaught Abe Lincoln was among
them, his sweeping arms flinging them back, his
voice raised bidding them hold off.

"Never mind these boys," he said, between
times, to their victim. "They are only the Clary
Grove boys. They are not bad fellows, stranger.
It's just their notion of fun. Now, boys," he con
tinued, addressing the others, "what 's up? What
has this stranger done, that you all had to pitch
into him like this ! ' '

"He punched me in the face!" bellowed the
leader, using the vile epithet again.

"What did he do that for!" asked Lincoln, in
the interests of peace.

The other did not offer any explanation.

"Did you call him what you called him just
now?" pursued Lincoln.

The member of the gang acknowledged that he
had.

* ' Now, see here, Jack Armstrong, ' ' Lincoln went
on, taking him by the lapels of his coat good-
naturedly, "if you were a stranger in a place and
somebody called you that, what would you do?"

"Lick him, by God!" thundered Jack Arm
strong.

74 A Knight of the Wilderness

"Of course you would," rejoined Lincoln; "and
you ought to. That 's just what he was going to
do when you all pitched onto him. Now let up.
You Ve had your fun, and the stranger has had his.
It 's time to quit ! ' '

Jack Armstrong, crestfallen, muttered some
thing under his breath, but did not see how he could
escape from the logic of the tall and angular clerk.
The rest of the gang, growling and cursing, exhib
ited a lively desire to renew the battle.

"If these gentlemen can restrain their impa
tience and present themselves one at a time, your
interposition may not be necessary," observed
Mortimer, seeing the frame of mind in which the
rowdies were.

"I am sorry to say, Mr. Kandolph, that these
boys are not in the habit of fighting that way,"
said Lincoln, frankly and without hesitation. ' ' Now,
see here, boys," he went on, turning to them,
"you Ve no call to make any more disturbance with
this stranger."

He proceeded to coax and wheedle them into a
disposition toward peace, with many flashes of
humor and fragments of quaint logic. He had suc
ceeded in restoring a fair degree of stability to
their equilibrium, and the outlook was pacific, when
Denton Offutt bustled up busily, with mincing
steps.

"What 's the matter? What 's the matter?
What's the matter? What's the matter?" he

The Frontier Clerk 75

piped, firing off a question with each step as he
came.

It did not take long to make it clear to Denton
Offutt what was the matter.

"Abe! Abe! Abe! Abe! Lick 'em. Lick
'em!" cried Offutt, in explosive excitement. "It 's
time this tomfoolery was stopped! Boys!" He
shook his thin, little fists beneath the nose of the
biggest one of them all. "Boys! There isn7't a
man of you can wrastle Abe Lincoln, my clerk.
He 's the best wrastler in all Illinois, and he knows
more than any man in the United States ! ' '

"I notice nobody never does nothin' but talk
about it," grunted the one who had started the
trouble.

Denton Offutt turned upon him like a hen with
a brood.

"You! You! You! You! Jack Armstrong!"
he cried, in shrill tremolo. "Why, he could wring
your neck for you!"

It had gone past the peacemaker. There was
no retreat left to honor. Armstrong was already
preparing for the encounter, stripping his coat,
rolling his sleeves, drawing in his leather belt,
vociferating taunts and threats the while.

"I don't like these woolings and pullings,"
observed Abe Lincoln, making ready, "but I sup
pose I must make the most of it."

The gang from Clary's Grove withdrew a step,
leaving a space for the wrestlers. The man from

76 A Knight of the Wilderness

Virginia, leading his horse to another tree, joined
Offutt at the door of the store. The young woman
stood within. Eandolph saw her there, pale and
intense.

"You will pardon me, madam," he said. "Shall
I ask these men to wait until you can withdraw?"

"No," replied the girl, with forced composure;
"if men must fight, the least women can do is to
stand by them."

Before there was time for other words a roar
went up from the circle of Clary's Grove boys, and
the two were at each other. It was soon apparent
that Lincoln tried to do no more than prevent the
other from throwing him. He broke hold after
hold, now eluding Armstrong, now standing stiff
and immovable before him, without making any
effort to throw him.

For a long space they struggled. The man from
Clary's Grove could do nothing. His comrades,
seeing him fail, began to mutter. Armstrong,
incensed, lost all restraint, and fell upon his antago
nist with blows and kicks, wholly unfair in the
sport.

In the instant that he did so, a wild light came
into the blue eyes of Lincoln. His huge hands
reached forth. They closed about the thick neck
of the other. The long arms stiffened. They lifted
Armstrong from the ground till his feet swung
struggling through the air. They shook him till the
breath rattled out of him. They flung him down

Lincoln shook him till the breath rattled out of him.

The Frontier Clerk 77

upon the ground, purple and gasping. In the soul
of Lincoln there was no charity for what was
unfair.

The boys from Clary's Grove, cursing and
threatening, crowded about Lincoln, ready to leap
upon him. Randolph hurried to his side. Denton
Offutt, sputtering, scurried into his store and laid
hold of the arm of Sylvia Hall in impotent alarm.
She, with heaving chest and kindled eye, suffered
his hands to remain there. Her eyes hung upon the
two who confronted the many.

Armstrong, struggling to his feet, elbowed his
comrades aside. He made his way until he stood
before Lincoln. He held out his hand to him, open,
palm upward.

" Shake!" he said. " You 're right! And, God,
but you 're strong!"

' ' Are you badly hurt 1 There is blood upon your
face!"

Sylvia Hall, standing in the doorway of the
store, found some embarrassment in expressing her
solicitude when the handsome young man with hair
like bronze entered a moment later.

"I thank you, ma'am," he replied; "it is kind
of you. It is nothing that will not wash off."

"It — perhaps a woman should not see these
things," she said, in some confusion, impelled to
make apology to this man. "I abhor such sights;

78 A Knight of the Wilderness

they distress me. But it must be glorious to be
brave ! ' '

"If it were not for such as you, men would not
be brave," made answer Eandolph, with a look at
her before which her blue eyes fell.

Without further word, she went from the store
through the street of the settlement to the house
where she was staying. Not once in all the way
did she dare look back; for she knew, in the man
ner in which women know many things, that a pair
of warm brown eyes followed her as she went. And
she knew that to look into them again, now, was to
have a heart utterly and forever lost.

CHAPTEB VI
THE MILLHAND

4fTT rHY, I tell you, he 's a wonder! He 's a
VV wonder ! He 's a big man, Abe Lincoln is !
I 'm with him most of the time. I can see it. I
know it. You can't fool me. You can't fool Denton
Offutt when it comes to men ! Why, I tell you what
I '11 do! I '11 give him thirty years — he's twenty-
two now — I '11 give him thirty years to be President
of the United States; that 's what I '11 do!"

Denton Offutt, giving his saucer of tea a final
cooling puff — it was characteristic of Denton Offutt
not to be able to await the psychological moment in
anything he did — gulped it down with a strangling
noise, and looked about upon his audience to
observe the effect of his prophetic assertion. His
audience consisted of the boarders gathered about
the supper table in Kutledge's tavern on the even
ing after the bout between Lincoln and Armstrong.
The effect of his impulsive and unreasoned
claims for Lincoln's future was not all that the
vanity of the speaker might have desired. It was
not because those who heard were inclined to dis
pute anything praiseful which might be said of
Lincoln. He had been a hero among them from the
beginning, and the adventure of that afternoon had

79

80 A Knight of the Wilderness

rendered his position in the community unassail
able. It was rather because the remarks came from
Denton Offutt that they did not receive the
expressed endorsement of the other boarders. For
Denton Offutt had been discovered to possess the
trait of talking too much, and his vociferations were
frankly accepted by the people of New Salem on
that basis. On this occasion, however, Denton
Offutt was convinced that he had not talked enough,
and immediately set about making up the deficit.

"Honest? Honest?" he cried, as though some
one had disputed the integrity of his clerk! "Why,
he 's the honestest man that ever lived anywhere.
Why, I call him Honest Abe ! Why, last week, Mrs.
Wiley paid sixpence too much for something she
bought, and when Abe found it out he shut up shop
and walked 'way out to her farm, seven miles in the
country, with the balance. And week before that
he found a little weight on the wrong side of the
scales after he had weighed out some tea for Mrs.
Poindexter, and he hunted around town for three
hours until he found her and gave her the tea that
was coming to her. Don't you call that honest!"

A mumbled acquiescence went about the supper
table, coming to audible articulation when it reached
Mortimer Eandolph, who had decided to remain in
New Salem for the night, after many elaborate argu
ments with himself on the point, none of which in
any way involved a pair of blue eyes of lingering
memory. The volcanic Mr. Offutt was exhibiting

The Millhand 81

alarming symptoms of another eruption, when Lin
coln himself appeared, averting the phenomenon.

' ' Where yon been, Abe ? You 're late ! ' ' cried
Offutt, in the midst of the clamorous welcome which
greeted Lincoln.

"Down the road a piece," replied Lincoln, wip
ing his forehead on a large red handkerchief, drawn
from the front of his shirt. In his free hand he held
a small, dingy, dilapidated book, which he carefully
deposited on the table at his elbow when he sat
down.

"My, but you look blowed!" piped Offutt, with
an air of proprietorship. "What you got?" he
added, without a pause, catching sight of the book.

"Kirkman's Grammar," replied Lincoln. "Just
been out to Vaner's to get it. Mentor Graham told
me he had one. It 's the only one in the county.
Beckon I '11 know a heap one of these days, eh, Mr.
Randolph ?" addressing himself to Mortimer, who
sat at the farther end of the table from him.

"Well, you know, you 're the smartest man in
the United States now, Lincoln, ' ' returned that one,
winking at Lincoln and glancing slyly at Offutt.

Lincoln laughed, and the tableful laughed, not
entirely knowing why. Offutt himself laughed,
feebly, as he applied himself to an apple turnover
that Ann Eutledge brought him, with a vague sus
picion that he was being made a butt. His oblitera
tion for the moment was complete, for Lincoln fell
to discussing matters of import with Eandolph, and

82 A Knight of the Wilderness

the others at table followed the conversation with
an attention that approached reverent awe. Without
knowing why, without consciousness that it was so,
these rude, rough men already felt subordinated in
the presence of the tall grocer's clerk when he chose
to be in earnest.

Mortimer Randolph was glad of the attention
paid him by the hero of the settlement for other
reasons than the pleasure he got from talking with
such a man. He had sufficient discernment to real
ize that his position in the community was delicate.
He knew there was a prejudice among these shaggy
people against him in spite of the account he had
given of himself that afternoon; that they resented
his deportment and manners; that they held his
correct speech against him ; that the softness of his
hands, the smoothness of his skin, the texture of
his clothes, affronted them. He fully appreciated
what the open friendship of Lincoln would do for
him in establishing him in favor with these men
of the frontier, and gratefully made the most of it.
Not that he particularly cared what they thought
of him; but — a vision of the blue eyes of one who
dwelt among them floated through his mind
bewilderingly.

Denton Offutt was not to be suppressed for long,
however, by any discussion, of whatsoever weight
and consequence. Having reduced his turnover to
a series of shining spirals on his plate; having
cooled in his saucer and drunk another cup of tea;

The Millhand 83

having picked his teeth of the last shred of supper,
he seized upon a brief lull in the conversation, and
broke forth into piping voice.

"Where 's McNeill? Where 's John McNeill
to-night?" he cried. "He has n't been here to-night.
Where is he? Where is he? Does anybody know
where he is ? Ann, do you know where he is ? "

The hand of Ann Kutledge, reaching to give
Mortimer Eandolph a dish of food, trembled. The
voice of Ann Butledge shook as she made answer.
The trembling of the hand, the shaking of the voice,
were scarcely perceptible. Probably no one at the
table discerned the trembling and the shaking as
she made answer, save Mortimer, and one other.
Observing them himself, and glancing about the
table to see if others did, the eyes of Mortimer
rested upon the face of Lincoln. Lincoln was look
ing at the girl. In his face was a compassion, a pro
tecting tenderness, that made it beautiful, sublime.
Other than that one look cast upon Ann Eutledge,
there was no sign among them all.

"He is gone East," said the girl, simply.

"What?" said Denton Offutt, in a voice that
was half a scream. "Left his store and gone
East?"

Lincoln's glance went from the face of the girl
to the face of Offutt. In his countenance was the
look of one who watched, waiting to rescue when
the moment of need should come. The mind of
Mortimer flew swiftly with events.

84 A Knight of the Wilderness

"He had word from his family in the East,"
went on the girl. There was no shake in the voice
now. There was level composure. She was at the
back of Offutt 's chair, taking his empty dishes. The
entire board was listening closely, the matter being
one of common interest. * ' He had to leave hastily, ' '
she went on, indifferently.

Denton Offutt gazed wide-eyed upon the others,
groping for something to which to tie thought. He
would have done better had he noted the face of
Lincoln, his clerk, or Mortimer; but his eyes were
too wide.

"Well — is n't he coming back? Is n't he going
to marry you ? ' ' blurted Denton Offutt.

"Why, what a question, Mr. Offutt," laughed
the girl, passing into the kitchen with a tray of
dishes.

Mortimer Eandolph, having divined the situa
tion, thought of a score of things to say to Denton
Offutt; none which he might give voice to, out of
consideration for the young woman. He was forced
to content himself for the present with a look of
indignant contempt, which lighted his brown eyes
with a red, flaring glow. A laugh went around the
table ; it was intended to be at the expense of Offutt.
The sound of it aroused Mortimer again. He was
on the point of rebuking them all, when Ann entered
the room. Every eye, save his own, was upon her.
There was no sign on her face. She smiled briefly,

The Millhand 85

in apparent amusement at Offutt, and went about
her work in her customary circumspect manner.

"That makes me think of a little dog that a
friend of mine had down in Kentucky when I was
a boy," drawled Lincoln, as Ann busied herself
about the table. "He was a cute little dog; he
always had his ears pricked up and his eyes wide
open, and gave other indications of a budding intel
ligence. He never bit anybody; he never killed the
chickens or chased the pigs. He was a very good
little dog, as dogs go. But he had two faults. He
barked a whole lot more than was necessary, and
he chewed things up. Anything from a plow handle
to a toothpick, from a bed quilt to a handkerchief,
that he could get a hold of, he gnawed and towsled
as long as there was anything left of it.

"Now, down at the bottom of the forty acres
that my friend's people had, was an old rail fence.
The yellow jackets had made a nest on one of the
bottom rails. One day, when my friend and I and
his dog were out tramping, we came across the nest.
Before we could say anything, the puppy made a
leap and grabbed it with his mouth. Now, the
yellow jackets didn't know the dog, and by the time
he could let go, his head was twice the size it should
have been. He came howling and whining up to us
with his eyes shut and his lips puffed out, the worst
looking dog I ever saw. My friend looked at him,
and looked at me. 'Abe,' he said; 'Abe! That con-

86 A Knight of the Wilderness

sarned purp never did know just what his mouth
was for I'

If the application of the anecdote was obscure to
the mind of Denton Offutt, he was alone in his fail
ure to appreciate it. The others, listening through
out with their breath held and their faces poised
ready for a laugh, burst forth into a bellow when
the tale was done that could have been heard as far
as Offutt 's store. Offutt joined in in a lost manner,
half wondering why they all looked at him. Morti
mer alone did not laugh. He saw far below the
humor of the story. His eyes were fixed upon the
narrator in admiration and affection. As for Ann,
she cast one grateful glance at Lincoln, which he
saw, and went about her work unnoticed.

Considering many things — none of which was a
pair of blue eyes — Mortimer Randolph decided on
the morning of the next day that it was not entirely
necessary for him to continue his journey until the
following day. After breakfast he wandered across
to Offutt 's store to explain why to Abraham Lin
coln. He felt a moral responsibility in making his
excuses for loitering to certain of the citizens of
New Salem. He had already imparted them to Ann
when she brought him his breakfast, with a formal
smile and a bright countenance, that bore no trace
of her emotions of the previous evening.

He found Lincoln stretched at full length on the
counter of the store, deep in the pages of the gram
mar. Lincoln did not observe his approach, for he

The Millhand 87

was at the moment conjugating a verb of many
irregularities, in an annoyed and audible voice.
Randolph, undiscovered still, stood beside him for
a moment, running his eye from head to foot and
back again, marveling at the tremendous stature of
the man. He had never before been so impressed
with it.

1 'About how long are you, anyway, Lincoln?"
he asked, presently, with a sociable laugh. There
was no immediate hurry to tell him why he was n't
going on that day.

Lincoln, finishing his conjugation without so
much as a glance at his visitor, placed his long
finger between the leaves of the book and swung
into a sitting posture, his drooping toes straggling
to the floor.

"I 'm six feet four, Randolph," he replied.
"Pretty good for twenty-two years, ehl" There
was pride in his look and his tone.

"I should say so," returned Randolph. "Think
you 've got your growth I ' '

"Well, I think so. I think I Ve got mine, and
half of somebody else's."

In the course of time Mortimer found it oppor
tune to mention his change of plan. Hearing that
he intended staying through another day, Lincoln
passed over to where he stood. They were alone in
the store. The tall clerk laid his arm across the
shoulders of his new friend.

"I 'm glad of it," he said. There was a sadness

88 A Knight of the Wilderness

in his eyes as he spoke. "I 'd like to see more of
you. Somehow, you seem to bring a touch to life
that is missing here. You are different from these
people. I like these people. They are good; they
are honest; you can count on them. Whether they
are friends or enemies, you can tell what they are
going to do. I like them all; even Clary's Grove
boys, rough as they are. But something seems to
be lacking in 'em, and you have got just that some
thing. I do n't know what it is. I do n't know any
body else that 's got it, excepting Sylvia Hall, the
girl you saw here yesterday, and — Ann Butledge."
He spoke the name hesitatingly, in lower voice.
"But they 're girls," he went on, "and I ain't great
shakes with the girls. Besides, the Hall girl will be
going back to Indian Creek pretty soon, and Ann
Eutledge — " He paused. Sadness and sorrow
deepened in his eyes. "Well, Ann is promised to
McNeill, you know. ' '

Mortimer forebore to speak of that in any way.
He made no reply of any kind, save to thank Lin
coln briefly for what he had said. There was a feel
ing in his thanks beyond the simple words he made
use of, there was a feeling in the tone and the look
which accompanied them which could not readily
have found expression in any words ; for the young
Virginian was drawn to this great, gaunt man by
a quick, living, understanding sympathy. The other
sensed the feeling, and returned it through a pres
sure of the hand that clasped Mortimer's shoulder.

The Millhand 89

There was silence between them, until a customer
entered the store. Mortimer departed without
further word.

Leaving the store, he wandered down the road
to the river. He loitered along its banks, among
the trees of a little grove that grew there, turning
away from the direction which the road took toward
Springfield. There were matters which he wished
to revolve in his mind. He wished to contemplate
the new friendship he had found, he told himself, as
he loitered, and he wished

Some one sat at the foot of a tree, in among
soft mosses, by the side of the little path he fol
lowed ; some one in a dress of dainty blue ; some one
with small, dainty hands that clasped a book in her
lap ; some one with a figure of exquisite contour and
harmonious grace; some one with hair of twisted
gold and eyes of blue that he had first seen looking
at him from the banks of that river, that he had
last seen looking at him on the afternoon before;
some one who glanced at him in confusion, half
smiling, uncertain whether she would speak to him.

With a naturalness which freed his action of
impudence, he sat beside her on the moss. They
fell to talking of many things as they sat there
looking out upon the river, listening to the river,
listening to the birds and the bees and the mill-
wheel.

The next day, and the next, and the fourth day,
Mortimer Randolph loitered in New Salem. "It

90 A Knight of the Wilderness

does not matter if I do not reach Vandalia for a
week," he told Lincoln, having a guilty conscience.

When on the fifth day he did start, some one
walked at his side as he led Powhatan down the
road past the mill ; soft hands put a sprig of golden
rod in his coat lapel before he mounted ; white hands
stroked the velvet nose of the roan ere he rode
away ; blue eyes followed him through the dust until
he disappeared down the road.

In a week he was back again. He rode up to
Offutt's store on that afternoon with a song on his
lips and a light in his eye, to tell Lincoln that he
meant to remain in New Salem. That his being
there might embarrass no one, he sought work to
do. He found it in Cameron's mill, now owned by
Denton OfFutt, frenzied financier. His immediate
superior, and the man from whom he took his
orders, was Abraham Lincoln, boatman, clerk, and
mill superintendent.

What times the eyes of the millhand wandered
through the window and down among the trees
beside the river, leaving the stones of the mill to
grind nothing; what times the millhand himself fol
lowed his wandering eyes when they found what
they sought among the trees was of no consequence
or effect upon his tenure of office. For Lincoln was
his immediate superior, and the heart of Lincoln
could not suffer the hand of Lincoln to be laid
heavily upon a lover.

The Millhand 91

At last the summer drew to a close. The time
of parting came. Their father, passing through the
settlement on a journey to Jefferson Barracks, had
told Eachel and Sylvia to be ready to return home
with him on a certain day. The eve of the day was
at hand.

Mortimer Randolph, millhand, walked with
Sylvia Hall through the moonlight down by the dam
and to the grove where he had first sat by her side
on a morning in July. It was late in September.
It was cool. They did not sit on the bank of moss
which had been their retreat during the hot months
of summer, but walked to and fro near the spot in
the little path, in among the elms and oaks.

Their talk was of many things, as it had always
been. Not once had there been word of love between
them. As they strolled this night, he came to tell
her of his home in Virginia ; of his mother and sis
ters; of his father and brother; of his nephew and
niece, children of his brother. He spoke of his love
for them, of his longing at times to go back among
them. In the telling, he paused. A silence fell upon
his lips. A trembling came over Sylvia as she stood
beside him. In all he had said there had been no
hint of her, yet she felt that he had paused to speak
of love.

"Sylvia" — his voice was low and earnest —
"Sylvia, we have not known each other long. It is
scarcely two months. But in that time we have seen

92 A Knight of the Wilderness

much of each other. And in that time — " He
paused once more. She feared that he would hear
the beating of her heart in the hush of the evening.
He began again.

' ' My mother taught me that a woman is sacred, ' '
he said. ''She taught me that no man should con
sider her lightly ; that no man might trifle with even
so slight a thing as her time ; that he might not seek
her companionship above all others unless there
were honest love in the seeking." Another pause.
"I would not have you think that I have forgotten
the teachings of my mother," he resumed; "and
yet, to-night, on the eve of your departure, I cannot
tell you that I love you!" His words were slow,
full of emotion, full of regret. For a moment her
heart ceased to beat. In another it sent the pulses
surging through her until she would have reeled,
if she had not put out a hand against a tree.

"I do not mean that I think you would have me
tell you," he went on, in perfect sincerity. "I do
not mean that I think you would be glad if I should.
I cannot but think it would grieve you, in the kind
ness of your heart ; I cannot doubt that you would
tell me in all gentleness that you would rather there
were no word of love between us."

If he had looked at her pale face, where the
moon shone upon it through the leaves of the trees
beneath which they stood ; if he had seen her parted,
quivering lips, the tears half formed in her eyes,

The Millhand 93

the frightened, wistful look, he would have known
how far from the truth he had gone. But he did
not look.

"I have wronged you, Sylvia," he resumed.
"Not because I may have led you to expect that I
would tell you of my love before you left; not
because I have sought you out diligently above all
others in the earth without an honest love in the
seeking, but because I have sought you out at all."
He paused; a fervor was creeping into his words
which he seemed to struggle against. When he went
on it had gone; there was feeling in his tones, but
they were calm.

"I am not permitted to make you understand;
there is much that I shall have to leave to your
inference, and your charity," he said. "Sylvia, I
am a stranger to you. I am a stranger to all who
know you and protect you. You do not know what
I am. You cannot be sure that I am what I may
seem to you to be. I am a millhand only that I may
be near you. Cannot you see how it is possible that
I may have wronged you ? ' '

Her voice was faint and afar off when she sought
to answer, but grew stronger as she proceeded.

"You are not a stranger to me," she said. "I
have learned what you are. There is that in a
woman which tells her. I do not need to be told
what you are. ' '

For a space there was silence between them. It
was his voice, slow and solemn, which broke it.

94 A Knight of the Wilderness

"If I should tell you that when I left that home
of which I have spoken to-night, I left it under a
shadow ; that I left it reviled, despised, condemned ;
that a darkness lingers over my name among my
own people even as I speak to you, would you under
stand how I have wronged you, and how bitterly I
accuse myself?"

"If your own lips should tell me evil things
about yourself, I should not believe them ; but in all
else I should believe you utterly, ' ' she made answer.
She turned her face toward him, reverently, long
ingly. He gazed across the flowing river that
muttered through the shadows of the trees.

"But it is true, Sylvia," he said. His voice had
sunk almost to a whisper. "It is even as I said. I
may tell you more than that. I may not even tell
you so much as to say that it should not be as it is.
Some day, perhaps, the way may be made clear for
me. Some day, perhaps, I may come seeking you
in perfect honor. If the day never comes, I should
like to feel in my last hours that I had lingered in
your memory as the man I may have seemed to be ;
as the millhand with whom you once walked and
talked beside the river and beneath the trees. ' '

He had finished. She laid her hand upon his
arm.

"May I tell you that I should believe in you
though the whole world cried evil against you?"
she said. "May I tell you that I shall have faith
in you to the last day?"

The Millhand 95

For an instant he pressed her hand, cold and
trembling, on his arm.

"You make me brave," he said. "Come; you
are cold. Your hand trembles. We must return."

CHAPTER VII
SHADOWS

IN the morning they left. All New Salem turned
out to see them off, and to banter Eachel and
William Munson; for William Munson had pro
gressed so far in the affections of Eachel that it
was necessary to banter them. William repaid them
for their trouble by kissing Kachel full on the
mouth in the presence of all, and having his ears
soundly boxed for his pains ; all of which, and much
else, delighted the people of New Salem beyond
measure, so that the cavalcade moved off at last
before a gale of laughter.

Between Mortimer and Sylvia there were only
the most casual words of parting, to the disappoint
ment and confusion of the people of the settlement,
who had not been ignorant of the principal occupa
tion of the millhand through the summer. None
ventured upon any witticisms at their expense.
There was that about each of them, quite uninten
tional on his or her part, which debarred the rough
settlers from any close approach to such familiarity.

With a last wave of farewell, as the party disap
peared down the road, Mortimer returned to his
work at the mill, whence his eyes wandered through
a grove of trees by the river side, over a scene of

96

Shadows 97

utter and blighting desolation. From that hour he
found his only comfort in the company of Abraham
Lincoln — in that, and in the hope that he would not
relinquish.

The company of Lincoln was not so easily
obtained as it had been. From the night when Den-
ton Offutt had blundered in remarking the absence
of McNeill, Lincoln was found, or was missed, more
and more frequently in the company of Ann But-
ledge. In the beginning of her trouble he had been
her champion. The story he had told that night
had saved her much. As time passed, and evil
things came to be whispered about McNeill and his
sudden departure, it was Lincoln who laughed them
to scorn in her own ears, and silenced them upon
the lips of those who spoke them. As time passed,
and the faith of her friends in the man who had
gone began to wane, it was Lincoln alone who made
her brave to believe in him. As time passed, and
her own confidence grew faint, it was this gaunt
and homely man whose charity brought a shame to
her cheeks. And as time passed, she sought his
comfort and courage more and more, until there
was rarely a day when he did not spend his spare
time with her.

Together they read books that he borrowed. He
taught her the contents of the grammar he had had
of Vaner, going again the six miles to get it for her.
They read such volumes as they could find, and dis
cussed them together. He went with her to the little

98 A Knight of the Wilderness

social gatherings of the community, shielding her
from glances and whispers. If need had been, he
would have fought with his fists for her. That he
did not have to do. His estate had risen among his
people. He had arrived, according to the lights of
New Salem. He was deferred to.

Winter came. The mill was closed. Mortimer
found such other employment as he was able. He
had no lack of money, but for the sake of his con
tentment and his reputation among the neighbors,
he kept himself at odd tasks whenever he could.
Thus he worked through the cold months, living in
the tavern, rejoicing in the moments when he could
have his friend alone, delighting in the hours when
Lincoln told stories to the men in the tavern 's public
room, or among the boxes in Offutt's store. The
sadness seemed less frequent in the other's eyes as
time wore on. Only, when it came, it was more sad
than it had been.

One day a letter came to Mortimer from Vir
ginia. The postmaster made a special trip to the
farm where Mortimer was employed that day to
deliver it. He felt that it must be important, as it
came from a law firm in Bichmond. He made many
overtures of his services when Mortimer was read
ing it, and lingered long and hopefully about the
spot. However, he had nothing to report when he
returned to Offutt's store, where a volunteer com
mittee of townspeople awaited him.

That night Mortimer sought out Abraham Lin-

Shadows 99

coin, under the human necessity of telling his happi
ness to some one. He had already confided to him
his love for Sylvia. For a long time they conversed
in low tones in Mortimer's room. When Lincoln
came out, he was full of thought, and glad.

On the next morning, Mortimer, mounting
"Powhatan," set out from the village of New
Salem, turning his face to the northeast. One hun
dred and fifty miles ahead of him, by the road he
traveled, was the town of Ottawa. Twelve miles
north of Ottawa was the little settlement of Indian
Creek, the home of Sylvia Hall.

It was a weary way. The roads were little bet
ter than trails for the most part; in places they
were worse. The mud was interminable and bot
tomless. During the daytime the rain was almost
incessant. In the mornings and the evenings the
mud was partly frozen, making travel painful. Yet
ever as he rode a song was on his lips ; and ever as
he rode he took from his pocket, from time to time,
the letter he had received the day before he left, and
read it with a radiant face.

It was four days before he reached Ottawa. He
arrived in a heavy rain, and so late at night that he
could go no farther until morning.

On the night he stopped at Ottawa, another trav
eler, sputtering through the rain and the mud,
sought refuge in the cabin of William Hall at Indian
Creek. He was a short, round man with a short,
round head, fitting close to his body; with a round,

100 A Knight of the Wilderness

red face in which were set a pair of widely sep
arated blue eyes that stuck out like lobsters' eyes.
Their moisture when the door was opened to his
knock further increased the similarity.

"WJiy, Ike Frake! For the land's sake!" cried
Eachel Hall. It was she who had opened the door.
"Why, you're wet as sop! Come right in; My,
how it blows ! ' '

Isaac Frake, by virtue of having traveled from
Ohio in migration with the Hall family, and of hav
ing been a frequent visitor at their home in subse
quent journeys back and forth, was heartily wel
comed by the other members of the family. Young
William Hall, slapping him on the back three or
four times on the strength of having been a com
rade in arms with him, ran to fetch a dry coat. The
elder Hall produced a flask of whisky and poured
out half a glassful from it, which Frake swallowed
with unction. Mother Hall hastened about in search
of food for the traveler. Eachel tittered and giggled
at him, keeping up a continuous chatter the while.
Only Sylvia took no part in the various activities
of greeting. It appeared from the sour look of dis
appointment on his face that her welcome was the
one of them all about which he had the greatest
concern.

If there were any trace of the fingers of the
Indian on the neck or the soul of Isaac Frake, they
were not discernible as he presently sat by the fire
in a coat belonging to the elder Hall — much too

Shadows 101

small for him — with a glass of toddy in his hand;
which also seemed somewhat too small as he tossed
it into his round face without a flicker of his round
eyes. He was abundantly healthful, with a rough
vigor of body and a blunt good humor. There was
something in his good humor, however, which sug
gested that it was ephemeral, and sat lightly upon
the round surface of the man.

"For the land's sake, where you been? We
ain't seen you for nigh on two years!" cried Rachel
for the twentieth time, pausing for the first time to
let him answer.

"Why, I 've been staying home tending my own
affairs," returned Frake, with an attempt at levity
in his tone and a look at Sylvia meant to be gently
satirical, but which passed into an expression of
dogged resentment. "I was afraid you wouldn't
know who I was when you got back. Some of you
don't seem to." His look became almost surly, in
spite of himself, as he concluded.

Eachel snickered, with immoderate relish. There
was a tradition in the Hall family involving the
futures of Sylvia and Frake. It had no more sub
stantial foundation than the propitiatory attitude
toward the young woman which the man had always
displayed, and a matter of fact acceptance of such
an eventuality on the part of the family in general
as being a satisfactory solution of the vexing and
vital problem, always serious to the early settlers,
of marrying off their daughter. Sylvia had always

102 A Knight of the Wilderness

given her parents keen anxiety because of her fail
ure to appreciate the importance of acquiring a hus
band and of a certain lofty indifference to the
swains who had had the temerity to court her.
Wherefore the attentions of Frake had been the
more welcome ; especially as it was generally under
stood that he was a leading man in the new Bock
River country and a patriot who had done much to
open the district for settlement.

Sylvia herself was so far out of harmony with
the plan that on all occasions she treated the man
with an indifference more crushing than scorn.
To-night she arose from her seat on the bench oppo
site to him in the midst of the look which he fastened
upon her after his ill-natured remark, and left the
room, completely ignoring the very existence of
such a man as Isaac Frake as her swishing skirts
swept his knees.

"You won't find it so easy with Sylvia now, Mr.
Frake," simpered Rachel, as the man watched her
sister passing into the little room partitioned off
from the large apartment for the use of the sisters.
"You've got a rival, you know!"

"Is that so?" returned Frake, with an appear
ance of unconcern and amiability which obtained
credit with Rachel. There were strains of wisdom
in Frake.

"She don't never say anything to me about it,
but the way she went on at New Salem with Morti-

Shadows 103

mer Randolph was something to take your breath ! ' '
went on the girl.

"With who?" demanded Frake, abruptly.

"With Mortimer Randolph, " pursued the girl,
oblivious of his emphatic interest in the name. ' * Oh,
he 's an awful dandy ! One of them eastern fellers,
I reckon. Land sakes, Mr. Frake, afore I 'd take
up with one of them eastern dandies ! ' '

"Uhuh!" grunted Mr. Frake, with profound
meaning in the sound, and a distortion of his round
features that fairly squeezed significance from their
creases.

"Why, Mr. Frake, what makes you look so?"
queried the girl, perceiving.

"Oh, nothing," returned Frake, with an owlish
rolling of his protuberant blue eyes.

"Oh, get along, Mr. Frake!" cried the girl,
giggling. * ' What do you mean ? ' '

Frake turned to young William Hall, who sat
by the chimney cleaning his musket, but half heeding
their conversation.

"Bill," he said, addressing the young man,
"you remember the morning last year when we got
to Saukenuk? Remember the man that made the fine
speech about the Indian woman with the papoose
that came to me begging money for whisky!"

Frake was perfectly aware that young Hall could
not know what the woman had begged of him, she
having spoken in the Sauk tongue.

"Which one was that?" returned William Hall,

104 A Knight of the Wilderness

Jr., intent for the moment on his gun, in which his
ramrod had become jammed.

4 'Oh, the one with the red hair that was so
damned anxious — excuse me, Miss Hall — so very
anxious about what was going to happen to the
Indians all the way up the river ! ' ' continued Frake.

Eachel, laying down the shirt which she was
making for her brother, stared from one to the
other.

"Sure, I remember!" ejaculated young Hall,
setting his gun down and scratching his head reflec
tively. "He was a smart aleck! Say, do you know
what?" he added, with a flood of recollection, "I
saw him go sneaking off into the hill after that
woman with the papoose, and after a while I saw
them come sneaking back together, mighty friendly-
like!"

William Hall, the son, impressed with the start
ling character of this information, looked at his
sister and the guest to observe its effect, with many
nods of the head. Kachel's mouth grew wider and
wider as she stared at the two. Frake, not feeling
called upon to enter into a detailed account of the
sequence of the events of the morning under discus
sion, half closed his eyes and glanced casually into
the fire.

1 ' Of course, you didn 't happen to notice whether
the papoose was a full-blooded Indian, or a half-
breed, did you?" he observed unconcernedly.

Young Hall, scratching his head again to stir his

Shadows 105

memory, allowed that it was powerful pale for a
full-blooded Indian. Frake grunted significantly,
and said nothing.

1 'But what's all that got to do with Mr. Ran
dolph?" cried Rachel, bursting with suspense and
curiosity.

"Oh, I don't like to say," returned Frake, gaz
ing into the fire still, in evident embarrassment.

"Isaac Frake, tell us! What do you mean!"
insisted Rachel.

"Oh, well," said Frake, reluctantly, "all I know
is that the name of this fellow I've been telling you
about was Randolph."

* ' The dirty skunk ! ' ' cried William Hall, glower
ing. "If he comes around my sister, I'll make a
sieve of him."

"Well, now, of course, maybe his first name
wasn't Mortimer," interceded Frake. "I don't
know what his first name was. ' '

"Oh, it was, I know it was," gasped Rachel, re
covering her breath. "I knew he was no good when
I first set eyes on him. Nobody with such airs ever
was any good. And nobody in New Salem never
knew anything about him ; he jest wandered in there.
Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! I knew it ! I knew it ! I knew it I"

In vain did Frake essay to stem the flood of
angry suspicion which he had loosed. To no avail
did he endeavor to explain and extenuate on
hypotheses that would leave the reputation and
character of Mortimer Randolph not utterly black.

106 A Knight of the Wilderness

His attempted suggestions were futile. All he could
say only strengthened suspicion into conviction.

1 'But for heaven's sake don't say a word about
it to Sylvia," he pleaded with Rachel, relinquishing
his efforts to save the man. ''What's the good of
her knowing?" he argued. "He may never show
up again, and she '11 get over it. If he does show
up, there '11 be time enough to let her know. Now,
you won't tell her, will you, Rachel?"

Rachel, posting off to her room immediately
without replying to his anxious petition, Frake sat
down to the supper which Mother Hall had mean
while been preparing for him, sufficiently satisfied
in his mind that Sylvia would know everything, and
much more, before he should have finished the
victuals.

What passed between Sylvia and her sister over
night was in no wise to be inferred from the appear
ance of the elder when the family gathered at their
breakfast of pork and hominy in the morning; but
the sullen face of Rachel made it obvious to Frake
that she had not carried conviction with her tale.

The remotest reference to Randolph was avoided.
Throughout the meal Frake was the embodiment of
innocence and frankness. He dilated upon the state
of the country. He described the melancholy con
ditions in Chicago, whence he had come, character
izing the settlement as a hopeless mud hole. He dis
cussed politics and other matters of passing interest
for the benefit of the elder Hall. He ingenuously

Shadows 107

pointed out from time to time the great promises
held in the new Rock River country, where he held
some sections, now that Black Hawk had been
driven out, and pictured a rosy future for that part
of the State. On the whole, he conducted himself
like a perfectly guileless man of healthful interests
and wholesome enthusiasm, to the eminent satisfac
tion of father and mother, son and the dark-eyed
sister. This, in the circumstances, was wisely diplo
matic on the part of Isaac Frake.

They were at the end of the meal. Eachel and
Sylvia were clearing away the dishes; the men,
pushing back their chairs, were filling their pipes;
the talk had guttered down into the dim vapidities
of well-fed complacency; when a tremendous com
motion among the fowl in the yard, the furious bark
ing of the settlement dogs, and the clatter of hurry
ing hoofs, arrested all that they did and brought
William Hall, the son, to the door of the house in
sudden excitement.

Opening the door and glancing out, he turned a
black look upon those in the room.

"Here comes the dirty skunk now!" he growled.

If it had been physiologically possible for the
face of Isaac Frake to exhibit pallor, he would have
been pale when he learned that Mortimer Randolph
had come there ; for he was as certain that it was he
as though his name had been used instead of the
epithet. By a struggle he repressed all signs,
merely looking from one to another of those present

108 A Knight of the Wilderness

with an open and questioning countenance, as
though inquiring the meaning of the unaccountable
behavior of the young man.

In a moment Mortimer Eandolph was in the
doorway. At sight of him Rachel, with a little
scream, grasped Sylvia by the arm. "William Hall
stared dumbly at him, understanding nothing. His
wife wiped her arms nervously on her apron.
Young William Hall stood aside, glowering. Frake
grinned and nodded with an expression of pleased
surprise. As for Sylvia, she looked at him as she
had always looked at him when in the presence of
others ; save that her face was pale.

His clothing was draggled and spattered with
mud. Flecks of it were on his face ; it plastered his
hands ; it encased and hid his boots. Clearly he had
ridden fast ; how fast they might have known if they
had seen Powhatan gasping for breath in the yard
without.

The expression on Mortimer's face was intense.
He was alert, vivid with life and action. His
smouldering eyes, his bronze hair straggling across
his pale forehead as he stood with hat in hand, his
disheveled condition enhanced his handsome and
impressive appearance.

His eyes passed swiftly from one to another of
those who were in the room. A glance of passing
recognition for the younger Hall, slight as the unim
portance of that young man merited ; a look at Frake
in which was a momentary trace of surprise at see-

Shadows 109

ing him there, and at seeing him with the breath of
life still in his body ; a nod at the elder Hall ; a bow
to his wife; a glimpse at Eachel; a clinging of his
eyes for an instant upon Sylvia.

"I have news for you," he said, full voiced, but
calm. ' ' I do not wish to alarm you ; I only desire to
put you on guard against the possibilities which you
may be called upon to confront. There are many
rumors flying about the Indians. Shaubena was at
Ottawa last night with many tales. Black Hawk has
crossed the Mississippi with a thousand braves, he
says, and marches inland. Shaubena is our friend.
He tells what he believes."

Eachel, with a shriek of terror, threw herself into
her sister's arms. The son forgot his look of dislike.
The father came closer, eager to hear more. The
mother wound and unwound her apron about her
hands. Frake sat dumb and transfixed, his eyes
starting from his head. As for Sylvia, she stroked
the dark hair of her sister, whispering to her. Her
eyes rested upon the face of Mortimer Randolph, as
they always rested when others were about.

He told them many of the wild stories that had
come to Ottawa, discounting them as he told them.
He answered such questions as he could. For a
space it was forgotten, in the excitement of the
threatened danger, that he was more than any other
man. Between them all was the spell of common
danger. It was he who broke it by intruding the
personal element.

110 A Knight of the Wilderness

"Frake," he said, "the men who care to go to
protect the frontier are gathering at Nixon's. Mr.
Hall, I should not wish to presume to make sugges
tions, but I hope you will consider well before either
yourself or your son leaves your family here with
out all the protection that is available. I myself
must go immediately to the mouth of the Eock Eiver
to see if anything can be done with the Indians. It
may be that Black Hawk can be diverted. I came
this way to let you know. I must hurry on. Do not
alarm yourselves. At the worst, you will only need
to exercise precaution. Good day!"

With a swift, wistful look at Sylvia he turned
from the door and passed to Powhatan. Sylvia,
gently laying aside her sister's arms, glided after
him. Her brother would have detained her. She
passed him and went to the side of Mortimer.

"You are going — at once?" she murmured, with
downcast eyes.

"Sylvia, I must!" he answered, with emotion.
' * I have much to tell you. I left New Salem to come
to tell you. But this news — I must go at once,
Sylvia. I have had dealings with the Indians. For
a time I was with the Indian agency headquarters at
Jefferson Barracks. Perhaps I have some influence.
Perhaps I can avert the danger. Perhaps I can at
least reduce it." He paused. "It was good of you
to give me these few words with you. ' ' He took her
hand for an instant. "I have much to tell you; I

Shadows 111

shall come when I can to tell it to you. Good-bye,
Sylvia!"

Their eyes met. She bade him no farewell with
her voice. She could not. He rode away, dragging
her heart after him over the rough road through the
cold grey April morning. Would to Heaven he
might have said what he had come to say to her
before he had ridden away to the Indians !

1 'It's him all right," said William Hall the son,
exchanging glances with Frake when Sylvia left the
room.

"It sure is, I am sorry to say," returned Frake.

"Sunning right off to the Indians, the first
thing ! ' ' cried Rachel. ' ' Now I wonder if Miss Obsti
nacy will believe what I tell her ! ' ' There was a ring
of malicious exultation in her voice, distinctly
feminine.

"The dirty skunk!" growled the junior Hall;
"it's goldarned funny how much he seems to think
of them Indians. Tears like he didn't want some of
'em to git killed ! ' '

"Shame on you, Bill Hall!" expostulated Frake.
"Hush," he added with solicitude; "here's your
sister. She mustn't know."

Sylvia Hall, her face like the grey morning into
which her lover had ridden away, passed across the
room to where the dishes stood ready to be cleaned.

CHAPTER VIII

LOVE AND FEAR

village of New Salem was all astir again ; to
JL the last citizen it had turned out and was down
by Cameron's dam once more on another April
morning, tingling with excitement. New Salem had
had many blessings to be thankful for since it had
gathered by the dam on that April morning the year
before to watch a long and angular boatman get a
flat-boat over the dam ; many of which were directly
or indirectly traceable to this same long and angu
lar boatman, their present fellow-citizen, Abraham
Lincoln.

There had been the vanquishing of Clary 's Grove
boys and their subsequent allegiance to New Salem ;
there had been the sojourn of the somewhat inscrut
able stranger with bronze hair, an anomalous com
posite of dandy and millhand; there had been the
love affair of the stranger and Sylvia Hall, with its
baffling issue. More interesting than these things
was the disappearance of John McNeill, lover of
Ann Rutledge, affording opportunity for intermina
ble speculations about the cause of his departure —
his reasons had long since been rejected — the proba
bilities of his return and the exact present and
prospective status of Abraham Lincoln if he should

112

Love and Fear 113

or should not return; problems that were pecu
liarly compensating and satisfying to the soul as
being utterly beyond the possibility of conjectural
solution.

Within the week the community had been enter
tained by the vanishing of Denton Offutt, hopelessly
bankrupt and a fugitive from his creditors ; an exit
beautifully in harmony with the career of that ver
satile and voluble financier. This had led to further
excitement. Abraham Lincoln, the clerk, having
demonstrated to himself and his employer that his
greatest opportunities in life did not lie in merchan
dising, and being stirred to ambition by the popu
larity which was forced upon him by the neighbor
hood, had come out, in a neat circular, for the
legislature.

The startling feature of his candidacy was that
he stoutly proclaimed himself a Clay man and a
Whig, in a district that was violently Jackson and
Democratic. His stand for the principles of the
"American System" doomed him, declared the wise
ones of the settlement. Perhaps he thought so him
self, for he wrote in the conclusion of his circular:
"If the good people, in their wisdom, shall see fit to
keep me in the background, I have been too familiar
with disappointments to be very much chagrined."

One source of strength there was, however, in
the "American System." The American System,
standing for internal improvements among other
things, implied making the Sangamon River naviga-

114 A Knight of the Wilderness

ble. This principle Lincoln promulgated and empha
sized ; and in this he was f atefully opportune, for it
was this very thing that was the cause of the agita
tion that brought all New Salem tingling to the banks
of the river by Cameron's dam on this morning in
April.

For there, chugging and chooting back and forth
in the back-water pond above the dam, was a steam
boat, constructed of wood and iron, as a steamboat
should be, with clanking, clanging, groaning, wheez
ing inward parts that propelled it through the virgin
waters of the Sangamon Eiver in a manner fitting
and appropriate to such a craft.

It was the steamer Talisman, brought all the way
from the Ohio Kiver by a zealous advocate of
internal improvements to demonstrate that the river
could afford passage to steam vessels as high as
Springfield. It had gone up to that place on the
flood waters in triumph. Keturning, it had been
brought low in its pride by the little dam at New
Salem, and was scolding and fuming about it as
befitted the occasion, having no more honor left than
a flat-boat. All the town was down to see it.

There were the merchants and farmers, the smith
and the carpenters — New Salem had two joiners
now — the tinner and the hatter, other increments to
the community; the housewives and the swarms of
children, many of them also increments; the young
men and the maids, just as there had been the year
before; excepting, specifically, that the sisters Hall

Love and Fear 115

were not there; that no stranger with brown eyes
came riding on a roan charger to raise their hair
with his cool daring, and that the lover who stood by
the side of Ann Eutledge was not John McNeill, but
an exceedingly tall and angular young man with
deep set, sad blue eyes and a face that would have
been ugly had it not been for a benign light that
shone through it.

But New Salem was disappointed on this morn
ing. The novelty of the sight of the steamer had
worn off early in its sojourn in the mill pond. There
was nothing picturesque or exhilarating in the peril
in which she was placed. There was no tall and
angular boatman in her crew to entertain them with
stories and repartee. And the manner of her even
tual escape did not fire the imagination and stir
the soul.

For those who had the Talisman in charge re
sorted to the purely physical and prosaic device of
tearing a hole in the dam to permit her passage
down stream, first settling roundly with old John
Cameron for the prospective damage. A principle
was at stake ; and a principle must not be deterred
or impeded in its progress by facts or the laws of
man, nature, or God.

Long before the demolition was completed and
the boat safe below the dam, interest in the proceed
ings began to wTane, and the people of New Salem
set back toward their village in a slowly drifting cur
rent, disappointed and unsatisfied, to gather in

116 A Knight of the Wilderness

knots in the street, hungry for something with which
to appease the appetites whetted by the promise of
adventure held out when the Talisman was first
heard chooting and chugging in the mill pond.

Abraham Lincoln, shambling flat-footed up the
hill with Ann Rutledge, left her at the tavern and
wandered to the groups standing about the streets.
Joining them, he read the signs of the hour. He
knew the psychological moment was at hand for a
bit of politics. He passed a group of his closest
friends. He began to talk. He talked about the
navigability of the river; about the American Sys
tem in general; about Clay, about Jackson; he re
verted to local matters and diverged upon State
politics; he* gather about him a larger group; he
talked in a voice louder and louder as the group
grew.

"Speech!" shouted William Munson.

' ' Speech ! Speech ! ' ' shouted ' ' Slicky Bill ' ' Green.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" shouted everybody.

Somebody brought a keg for him to stand upon.
Haft a dozen shoved him toward it, and upon it.
"Speech! Speech!" they shouted. "Abe Lincoln!
Abe Lincoln ! Speech ! Speech ! Speech ! ' '

"Gentlemen and fellow citizens," he began; "I
presume you know who I am. I am humble Abra
ham Lincoln" — "Humble hell!" shouted a Jackson
man. The sad grey eyes wandered toward him.
"My politics are short and sweet, like the old
woman's dance," proceeded the candidate. "I am

Love and Fear 117

in favor of the internal improvement system and a
high protective tariff — " " High way robbery," bel
lowed the Jackson man. The quiet grey eyes were
fixed for a moment on him. The quiet grey eyes saw
William Munson edging toward the interloper in
belligerent attitude.

"My fellow citizens," he proceeded; "I may not
live to see it, but give us a protective tariff and we
will have the greatest country on the face of the
earth!"

' * Give you a rope to hang yourself ! ' ' roared the
Jackson man.

There was terrific commotion in the vicinity of
the Democratic partisan. William Munson had ar
rived at his side, and laid hands upon him at the
latest interruption. The air was filled with swinging
fists, grunts, curses, the sound of blows. Munson
went down. The other, astride of him, pounded his
head with clenched fists.

The grey eyes saw. Lincoln left the keg. He
churned his way through the delighted spectators.
He laid one hand upon the neck of the Jackson man
and the other upon the back of his clothing where he
knelt over his fallen foe. Swinging him like a sack
in his pendulous arms, he flung him spraddling over
the heads of the crowd, a dozen feet away, where he
fell in a heap and was swiftly possessed, still in a
heap, by Munson and Slicky Bill.

"Fellow citizens," said Lincoln, resuming his
keg and his speech, "I have spoken as I thought. I

118 A Knight of the Wilderness

may be wrong in regard to any or all of the matters
I advocate; but I hold it a sound maxim that it is
better only sometimes to be right than at all times
wrong. My case is thrown exclusively on the inde
pendent voters of the country. If elected, I shall be
thankful ; if not, it will be all the same ! ' '

Mighty cheers arose from the throats of his
audience. He was a despised Whig ; but first of all
he was Abe Lincoln, and they cheered wildly and
long.

"Cheer, you condemned Democrat!" shouted
Slicky Bill Green to the Jackson man, still in a heap
on the edge of the crowd, grinding his face into the
soil of New Salem with his elbow. Munson, sitting
on the man's legs, jounced up and down vigorously
by way of persuading him.

* ' Hurrah ! ' ' growled the man.

* ' Cheer for Honest Abe Lincoln ! And be happy
about it ! " persisted Slicky Bill.

"Hurrah for Honest Abe Lincoln," repeated the
man, with a lack of spontaneity and enthusiasm
highly unsatisfactory to Slicky Bill.

To what further devices Green would have re
sorted for the purpose of restoring the man's spirits
and obtaining the proper ring of acclaiming joy in
his cheering voice will forever remain unknown, for
before he had set about putting them into execution
he was diverted by an excited uproar in the skirts of
the howling gathering, followed by a tense hush. He

Love and Fear 119

arose to his feet, William Munson with him, and per
mitted the Democrat to assume a natural position.

A man on a horse that puffed and foamed from
hard riding was waving a large sheet of paper in his
hand. The man was ferociously accoutred with a
sword and a brace of pistols sticking through his
belt, and was struggling with an oppressive sense of
importance.

"Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!" he shouted,
waving the paper frantically. "Citizens of New
Salem, I bring you a message from your Governor,
John C. Eeynolds; listen to his warning!"

There was not a sound among them. Surely,
New Salem had much to be grateful for !

"To the militia of the southwest section of the
State, ' ' read the man, rolling his eyes from his docu
ment to his audience and back again at every pause.
' ' Fellow citizens : Your country requires your serv
ices. The Indians have assumed a hostile attitude
and have invaded the state in violation of the
treaty of last summer. The British band of Sacs and
other hostile Indians, headed by Black Hawk, are in
possession of the Rock Eiver country, to the great
terror of the frontier inhabitants. I consider the
settlers on the frontier to be in imminent danger.
In possession of the above facts and information, I
have not hesitated as to the course I should pursue.
No citizen ought to remain inactive when his country
is invaded and the helpless part of the community in
danger. I have called out a strong detachment of

120 A Knight of the Wilderness

militia to rendezvous at Beardstown on the 22d
instant. Provisions for the men and food for the
horses will be furnished in abundance. I hope my
countrymen will realize my expectations and offer
their services as heretofore, with promptitude and
cheerfulness, in defense of their country. (Signed)
John C. Eeynolds, Governor of the State of
Illinois."

Wheeling his horse, the courier disappeared at
dramatic speed before his fellow citizens could col
lect themselves for one word. The men of New Salem
stared at each other blankly, with wide eyes. One
by one, with a common instinct, they looked at
Abraham Lincoln.

Slicky Bill made his way to Lincoln's side.
"What shall we do about it, Abe?" he asked,
helplessly.

"Well, I can't answer for the rest of you,"
returned Lincoln, looking down into the faces turned
toward him, "but I'll tell you what I'm going to do.
I'm going to leave for Beardstown to-morrow morn
ing, if I can get a nag. If I can 't, I '11 go anyway. ' '

"By cracky, Abe, I'll go with you!" exclaimed
Green, suddenly inspired.

So would they all go with him ! They proclaimed
as much in a babel of voices ! The excitement broke
forth in a buzzing confusion! They talked, they
laughed, they shouted, they swore. Presently they
dispersed and ran frantically to their several homes
to break the news and prepare for the expedition.

Love and Fear 121

The utmost that New Salem had been through in
its short history was as an old woman's tale to the
excitement and turmoil that agitated the settlement
that night. The wildest rumors of the Indian upris
ing flew from house to house. The women ran bare
headed to tell that Black Hawk was at the head of a
conspiracy belittling Pontiac's; that he came with
thousands of Indians from the Western plains ; that
an English army was marching from Green Bay to
cooperate with him, and many other stories of like
import. "Wives wept on the shoulders of husbands
going forth to danger ; young men made it the occa
sion for intimate and personal confessions long con
templated, and the entire community conducted
itself as a community should that believes itself to
be on the threshold of a long and bloody war.

Abraham Lincoln was not oppressed by a sense
of the momentous solemnity of the hour. He looked
upon it as serious ; he was sober in his discussion of
it ; but he had heard much of Black Hawk from his
friend Randolph, and believed that he was not the
bloodthirsty and abandoned savage that rumor
made him out to be. He even felt that actual con
flict might have been averted, and might still be.
Ann Butledge shared his view of the situation; she
shared most of his views now. As they sat together
in the deserted dining room of the tavern after the
supper had been cleared away, which was the only
place where they could be alone, they talked of
other things.

122 A Knight of the Wilderness

They talked of the time when he should return
from the war. They planned for the years to come,
without one thought that he might not come back.
He had his way to make before they could carry out
their plans together. Together they planned the
making of the way. If he should be elected in the
summer, their plans would be hastened. They did
not delude themselves with the high hope of that,
however. If he should not be elected, he would go
to Springfield and study law. In the course of three
or four or five years, they could be married — if
McNeill should not return meanwhile.

Always there was that between the two. Deserted
as she had apparently been by him, and loving her
brave and generous sweetheart as she did, she never
theless could not rid her mind of a sense of obliga
tion toward her former lover. She had given her
word to him. If he came to claim the forfeit, she
would fulfill it, for the good of her soul. Such was
her supersensitive conscientiousness. In her heart
she prayed he would not; in her heart she dreaded
lest he should.

Understanding this with an insight keener than
a woman's ; knowing her fear and the torture of it to
her; patient, magnanimous, considerate, Abraham
Lincoln gave her what courage he could. He did not
speak of love as they sat there alone. He did not
try to dispel her doubts. It was a struggle within
her own soul; her own soul must prosecute it to a

Love and Fear 123

conclusion. Like a tender friend, shielding her from
every shock he could forfend, thoughtful only of her
peace of mind, utterly devoted to her happiness, sac
rificing his own pride, laying bare his own sensitive
nature, he was willing to await the time and abide
by the outcome. He loved her, and would con
tinue to love her. More than that he could not do
for her.

And so that night they talked of their plans,
always predicated upon the "if," the dread possi
bility that gnawed into her soul. When their future
was before them and the other was hidden, she was
joyous, and the face of Lincoln glowed with a serene
happiness that made it a thing of beauty, rough and
homely as it was. When her thoughts turned back
to the dread present again, as they always did, joy
went from her, and a look of ineffable sadness came
into the patient blue eyes of her lover.

Thus it was between them when he arose from
the table at last to bid her farewell; there could be
no farewell between them on the morrow. Thus it
was between them when he bent over her and kissed
her full on the lips. Thus it was between them when
she looked up into his eyes through her tears, and
smiled upon him a smile over which was the shadow
of dread, the ghost of fear.

On the morrow he road away to the war, with
those others who went from New Salem. At the end
of the village he turned for the last time to wave

124 A Knight of the Wilderness

farewell to her, where she stood before her father's
door, ere he passed from sight. As he turned his
face again to the West the look of sadness was deep
within his eyes.

CHAPTER IX

CANT-HOOKS AND CAPTAINS

IN THE beginning, it was a lark for the boys of
New Salem to set out on a chase after Black
Hawk. There was a vivifying sense of freedom and
irresponsibility in getting on a horse and riding
across a new country with a company of boon com
panions. There was novelty. There was adventure.
There was a flavor of danger about it. The recruits
from New Salem made merry as they rode toward
Richland, their first camp, on that morning in April.

As reckless and roistering as any, Abraham Lin
coln rode among them, joining in their rough play,
bandying jokes with them, telling them stories, tuss
ling with them from the back of his horse and other
wise deporting himself like an exuberant youth with
great animal strength in his arms, though with some
thing in his mind which he would forget. With
laughter and shouts he rode among them; but
through all his laughter and his shouting there was
a deep sadness at the bottoms of his grey eyes. The
dread of her dread was upon him.

''Abe, how would you like to be captain of this
shebang?" cried Slicky Bill, riding alongside of him
early in the march.

"Well, Slicky, I should like, of course I should

125

126 A Knight of the Wilderness

like it, if the boys want to make me captain," re
turned Lincoln. "Nobody could be insensible of the
honor. ' '

"Good!" cried Slicky. "Old Bill Kirkpatrick
wants it. The boys don't like him, but they are
afraid of him, 'cause he's so rich. What if he is the
richest man in Sangamon county!" went on Green,
with fire. "I guess this is a free country, and we
don't have to knuckle down to no goldarned rich
fellers!"

"Now, see here, Bill," rejoined Lincoln, with
sudden animation. "I hadn't cared overmuch about
being captain until you told me that old Kirkpatrick
wanted it ; but now I wish you would elect me, if you
could. I'll tell you why. Did I ever tell you about
Kirkpatrick and the cant-hook?"

No, he never had.

"Well, when I first came to this country," went
on Lincoln, "I got work with Kirkpatrick to roll
some logs. He didn't have a cant-hook, so he said
he'd get one. Now, a cant-hook costs two dollars,
Bill, and I made a proposal to Kirkpatrick. I told
him that if he would give me the two dollars, I
would move the logs without a hook. He agreed,
and I did move them, with a bar and a piece of rope.
Bill, when he came to pay me off he did not give me
that two dollars, and he never has. If you boys
could elect me captain I'd be willing to call it square,
and to tell him so. ' '

Cant-Hooks and Captains 127

"By hen, I'll fix him!" ejaculated Green, highly
indignant ; and immediately went about doing it.

This is how he did it: The election was on the
following morning. The two candidates stood apart.
The men were told to fall in line behind their favor
ite. A howling, tumbling mob broke in Lincoln's
direction. When the ballots had subsided sufficiently
for inspection, the line behind Honest Abe was thrice
the length of the one behind Kirkpatrick.

"Cant-hook! Cant-hook!" shouted the Lincoln
supporters, while the towering militia captain looked
blandly upon Kirkpatrick, sputtering in his wrath.

"I swear, Bill," said Lincoln, confidentially to
Slicky, when they were on the march. "It's a fine
thing to be captain, but how under Heaven do you
do it?"

Bill didn't know, but suggested for the comfort
of his friend that probably nobody else did, and
that therefore he could not make any palpable blun
ders in the manual. Lincoln took courage there
from, and marched at the head of his command with
a serene confidence in fate.

Fate presently presented itself in the form of a
narrow gate in a fence, through which the files of
the company could not possibly pass abreast. Lin
coln, seeing it at a distance, pulled Slicky Bill by the
sleeve and pointed to it.

"What '11 I tell 'em? What '11 I tell 'em, Bill?"
he asked, under his breath. "What's the proper
command to get 'em to go endwise?"

128 A Knight of the Wilderness

' * Hanged if I know ! ' ' replied Bill, perplexed.

"Men!" shouted Lincoln, for they were at the
fence; "this company is dismissed for two minutes,
when it will fall in on the other side of the gate ! ' '

Narrow gates in fences were not the only em
barrassments of his new office. He found it difficult
to obtain from the men the necessary respect for his
military authority without forfeiting their personal
regard for himself. They were a wild, irreverent lot
of fellows at best, on whom all restraint sat lightly.
To be under the absolute direction of one of their
own number; to receive orders from an old chum
and to obey them with a straight face ; to look upon
his office as anything more than an amusing for
mality and a joke on Kirkpatrick, was incompatible
with their principles of liberty and their sense of
the fitness of things.

It became necessary for Lincoln to make them
realize that he was commander and to preserve his
dignity without arousing their dislike. In this task
the strength of his arms, which he was always able
to exert with a smile on his face and mildness in his
eye, did much. His patience, tact, good humor and
presence of mind did more. Only once was he openly
defied. Early in his command a private suggested
that he go to the devil when he issued a command.
It brought up a point of military etiquette and disci
pline which was settled immediately and perma
nently.

Another time indirect disobedience brought trou-

Cant-Hooks and Captains 129

ble upon him. Some of his men found where the
whisky of the expedition was kept, and stole some
of it. In the morning part of his command could
not march. He was blamed, and suffered punish
ment vicariously for his men. All day he was obliged
to carry a wooden sword in his hand. The time was
to come when he was to carry a much more griev
ous burden through the faults of his countrymen,
and with the same forbearance and good-tempered
patience that he exhibited on that day.

He himself was not entirely schooled in the strict
requirements of military discipline. He himself
transgressed on one occasion, and suffered for it.
An order was issued that there should be no firing of
arms within a hundred yards of the camp, for obvi
ous reasons involving the public safety. One night
he discharged his pistol in camp, that being the only
method of unloading it. For this he was rebuked
and deprived of his sword for a day. It was his
last offense.

The militia marched from the rendezvous at
Beardstown toward the Yellow Banks, on the Mis
sissippi, where they were to receive supplies to be
forwarded from Jefferson Barracks by water. The
holiday spirit of the expedition continued on the
march. Even the crossing of the swollen and turbu
lent Henderson River, effected by means of a raft
and an old leaky boat, was a lark, accompanied by
much unnecessary splashing and wetting of clothes.

The enthusiasm lasted until they reached Yellow

130 A Knight of the Wilderness

Banks. It was so high that when the New Salem
company and another company both desired the
same spot for a camp, a contest was arranged to
determine which should have it. The New Salem
boys, having Lincoln's prowess in mind, suggested
that a champion from each company wrestle for
choice. The other company, having in mind a giant
among them, by name Dow Thompson, accepted the
challenge.

The entire army came to see the fun. All the
money and detachable property of the soldiers was
wagered on the result. The champions were pro
duced. They grappled. In a moment Lincoln looked
over his antagonist's shoulder at his friends.

"This is the most powerful man I ever had hold
of," he said. "He will throw me and you will lose
your all unless I act on the defensive. ' '

In another moment Lincoln went down, bringing
the other with him.

"Dog-fall! Dog-fall!" screamed Slicky Bill
Green, jumping into the air and waving his hat.
"That don't count. Try it again, Abe! You can
throw him ! ' '

"Fair fall! Fair fall!" shouted Thompson's
supporters.

Instantly the two factions charged each other.

* * Hold on, boys ! ' ' cried Lincoln, running between
them. * ' Give up your bets ! ' ' — to his friends — * ' if he
has not thrown me fairly, he could ! ' '

Peace was restored. It was the first and the last

Cant-Hooks and Captains 131

time that Lincoln was ever vanquished in wrestling.
It was not the first or the last time that he sacrificed
his personal pride by surrendering non-essentials
for the sake of peace. It was not the first or the last
time that his sense of proportion, his gift of perspec
tive, his grasp of the relative importance of things,
made compromise with his own interests for the
general welfare.

The spirit of the militia underwent rapid trans
formation at Yellow Banks. The provisions did not
arrive from Jefferson Barracks. The men grew
hungry. There was nothing for them to do but drill.
They became restless, refused to obey their officers,
grumbled, fell to talking about going home, and they
grew mutinous.

It was Lincoln who saved them. Lincoln, with his
droll stories ; Lincoln, with his farcical pranks ; Lin
coln, with his sympathetic good nature, his humor
ous point of view, his optimism. He submerged the
officer in the man. He relinquished the man for the
buffoon. He turned clown. He made them laugh.
Those who laugh cannot mutiny. They forgot their
grievances. They plucked up their spirits. The pro
visions arrived, and they set off for Fort Armstrong
at the mouth of the Eock River in picnic mood again.

There they joined the forces under General
Atkinson, the "White Beaver. " With General
Atkinson was a colonel of the regular army, com
manding four hundred men from Forts Leaven-
worth and Crawford; a bluff, rugged colonel. His

132 A Knight of the Wilderness

name was Zachary Taylor. Under Colonel Taylor
was a certain second lieutenant. He was not then
present. He had been away on furlough; he was
hastening to rejoin his command, voluntarily. His
name was Jefferson Davis.

The army set out on Black Hawk's trail, which
led up the right bank of the Eock River. The
mounted volunteers, under General Whiteside and
Governor Reynolds, marched along the banks of the
river, through the mud, over prairies, among dark,
damp woods. General Atkinson was with them.
Colonel Taylor with his regulars and three hundred
unmounted militia followed in boats.

They came to Prophetstown. The Indians had
burned it, and gone on. They reached Dixon's ferry,
kept by John Dixon, an old resident, who had always
maintained friendly relations with the Indians.
Isaiah Stillman and David Bailey were there with
militia from the northern part of the State, im
patient to strike the Hawk.

Lincoln, sauntering to Dixon's tavern, where his
company was mustering, encountered a handsome
young man with hair of bronze and brown eyes.

1 ' Well, howdy, Randolph ! " he said. * ' You here ? ' '

1 'Hello, Abraham! I'm glad to see you!" re
turned Randolph.

''How about this, Randolph?" Lincoln asked,
when they had exchanged further words of greeting.
"Is there going to be a fight? Where is Black
Hawk?"

Cant-Hooks and Captains 133

" There need not have been a fight,'' returned
Randolph. "The Hawk did not come to make trou
ble. I have talked with him. He only wants to make
corn among the Winnebagos. He came to plant on
his old territory. He brought all the women and
children with him. The poor old fellow believes that
he is right. He thinks he has been badly treated.
He does not want war. ' '

"You say you have seen him?"

' * Yes ; I went to Prophetstown. He received me
well. He was friendly. He may have erred; he is
stubborn; but he is honest, and does not want to
fight. He has passed on into Wisconsin, I expect, to
join the Winnebagos."

"Will they help him if it comes to war?"

"I presume they do not know that themselves,"
Randolph made answer.

Lincoln was silent. The sadness came into his
eyes.

"Randolph," he said at length, "we may be tech
nically right in this matter, but we are morally
wrong. Our government has the treaty duly signed,
but Black Hawk knows that it has not been fulfilled
by the whites. Furthermore, the old chief cannot
forget the indignities heaped upon his band by the
lawless squatters, who were thieves, cut-throats,
outlaws from the civilized communities of our land.
They fringed their cabins around the Indian's reser
vation and appropriated the Indian's gardens. They

134 A Knight of the Wilderness

burned their lodges. They beat their women and
children. ' '

1 'They did worse that that," remarked Kan-
dolph.

"A darky may stand such treatment without
turning tail," Lincoln went on, "but an Indian,
never ! He'll fight until he dies when his blood is up.
The Hawk has a right to insist on the fulfillment by
the government of the treaty. He cannot forget the
violations of his sacred dead, the destruction of his
ancient home, and the cruelty to his women and chil
dren. The fact is, the whites are so bitter that they
cannot regard an Indian as human — as possessing
any more rights than so many stones. I see a
bloody fight ahead of us, and we shall have enough
to answer for if we survive this war. ' '

"I am as unwilling to pursue the war to its obvi
ous conclusion as anyone," said Eandolph, "but it
would seem that there is no alternative now. The
Black Hawk is stubborn; the white are fanatic!"

"Affairs need never have reached this point,"
responded Lincoln. "I think this is a case where
discretion would have been the better part of valor.
Better to have let the old chief die in his ancestral
home. The case reminds me of one of our pioneer
farmers who had a big log lying in the middle of his
field. It was too big to haul away; too knotty to
split; too wet and soggy to burn. One Sunday he
told his neighbors that he had got rid of the log.
'How did you do it?' they asked. '"Well, now, boys>

Cant-Hooks and Captains 135

if you won't tell the secret, I'll tell you,' answered
the farmer. 'I just plowed around it!' "

Another silence was between them. Presently
Lincoln turned toward his friend. The shadow of
sadness had gone from his eyes. They were filled
with gentle sympathy. He laid his hand on Ran-
dolph's arm.

"And Sylvia? How about Sylvia?" he said with
a smile.

Randolph told him briefly of his hasty visit at
Indian Creek. "I had barely a word with her," he
concluded.

"You did not show her the letter?" pursued
Lincoln.

Randolph shook his head.

"My haste was too great," he said. "I felt called
upon to reach Rock River without delay. I felt the
time was not fitting. Perhaps it would have been
better if I had; I accomplished nothing by coming
here. And Ann Rutledge I " he went on, finding Lin
coln made no response. "Is she well, and happy?"

A shadow came over the face of the other, a
heavy shadow of grief and sadness.

"Mortimer, Mortimer, she is not happy!" cried
Lincoln. In his emotion his voice was almost a
moan. "I love her; I love her with a love that con
sumes ! I think she loves me. She thinks she does.
She is certain she does. But there is a horrible
ghost in her soul; the ghost of her promise to that
other man. In the honesty and sincerity of her

136 A Knight of the Wilderness

nature, she cannot think that she is absolved from
that by his leaving. It is as though she were mar
ried to him. She fears he will return. It haunts her
love for me. It haunts the happiness which that love
would bring her. It lies cold and contaminating
within her heart.

' * I do not know ! I do not know ! ' * Tears were in
his eyes as he went on. His voice was low and
mournful. ' 'I think she is wrong. The man deceived
her. His name is not McNeill. It is McNamar. He
told her he had to hide from his people while he
made his beginning, lest they follow him and drag
him from the ladder he sought to climb before his
feet were firm upon it. Perhaps he did. He told her
he would come back. Perhaps he will. I do not
know ! He writes to her, but his letters are formal
and distant. I believe she would be justified in for
saking him, but the ghost is in her soul, and she
cannot cast it out!"

There was silence for a moment. The unhappy
man raised his two huge clenched fists high above
his head. His eyes closed. His great gaunt frame
quivered with emotion.

" My God! My God!" he moaned. " It is killing
her ! It is killing her ! And it is I who have done
it ! She could bear it if I had not brought my love
to her."

His upstretched hands unclasped. He lowered
them, burying his face in them. "I would far rather
he returned; I would far rather see them wedded,

Cant-Hooks and Captains 137

than that this ghost should so devour her soul,"
he said.

A silence fell upon them. The hand of Kandolph
crept to the shoulder of his friend and rested there.
For a moment they stood so. With a shudder through
his whole body, Lincoln struggled into self-control.

* ' I must muster in, ' ' he said, and the two walked
silently toward the tavern, where Major Eobert An
derson was swearing in the militia for service in the
United States Army.

CHAPTER X
THE FLAG OF TKUCE

ISAAC FRAKE, having by virtue of swaggering
self-assurance become captain of soldiery in
Major Isaiah Stillman's command, rode in the midst
of his men with many brave oaths, vociferously ex
pounding the purpose and art of warfare as it was
at that time conducted by himself and Stillman.
Isaac Frake, captain of militia, was in high spirits.
His counsel had prevailed. Major Stillman, with his
own and Major Bailey's militia, was on the way
from Dixon's up the Rock River to chastise Black
Hawk and disperse his band.

It mattered little to Captain Isaac Frake that his
counsel had prevailed, because the soldiers, on the
point of open mutiny, had demanded to set out on a
punitive expedition without more delay after the
arrival of Whiteside at Dixon's. It mattered still
less that the mutiny was fostered and fomented by
himself for the specific purpose which it had
attained. If it mattered at all to him, it was a
matter of pride.

Isaac Frake, discussing the objects of war as he
rode, had nothing to say about personal revenge as
a worthy motive, or hatred for those whom one has
injured and fears, or the expediency in removing

138

The Flag of Truce 139

from the scene of one's future home Indians to
whom one has been a neighbor, and who might
remember incidents and circumstances of his neigh-
borliness that would be embarrassing in a new order
of things. Neither did he have anything to say con
cerning the use of whiskey in strategy and tactics,
and the opportunities it offered for subverting the
natural instincts of the red men. Nor had he any
thing to say concerning treachery and guile in any
form.

* * We '11 show the old fraud what it is to defy the
United States Government!" quoth Frake, vehe
mently, speaking for the Government, as an officer
in the army. "We '11 show him that' when an Indian
makes a treaty, an Indian has got to keep the
treaty!" Speaking for the Government, Frake was
silent about the keeping of treaties with the Indians
by the United States. "I know the old' cuss," Frake
went on. "I didn't live next him for two years for
nothing. Coming to make corn, is he? Why don't
he make corn in Iowa, where he belongs ? What does
he come over here for? Isn't the soil good enough
for him there? If he wants to plant, why does he
make tracks for the Winnebago country with a band
of warriors I Oh, I know him ! ' '

Thus said Frake, captain of militia, as he rode
forth to slay. This, and much more of like purport,
he reiterated, bouncing along with his men. They
echoed him approvingly. As an officer and a man
of sense, they believed him. Also, they were in

140 A Knight of the Wilderness

complacent temper. They were gay. They were out
upon a picnic. They laughed and joked roughly such
times as they were not called upon to listen to the
dissertations of their captain.

One among them was silent, one who was not
made jubilant at the prospect of killing the red
skins. Concerning him Frake whispered to his men
as they rode: "You fellows watch that man Ran-
dolph! He 's a friend of the Indians. He '11 play
us into their hands if he gets a chance, or I miss
my guess ! I happen to know something about him.
And I happen to know of a squaw of the Sacs who
has got a papoose with a skin altogether too white
to look good on an Indian ! ' '

Mortimer Randolph, riding apart, saw the angry
looks his comrades cast upon him. Riding alone,
he gave them no heed.

All day they went on through the unbroken
woods, three hundred and fifty white men, laugh
ing, singing, joking, cursing, awakening the silence
of the waste places to a myriad startled echoes, seal
ing the throats of birds with terror, making the
squirrels cling quivering and afraid to the limbs of
the high oaks, peeping wide-eyed upon a sight they
had never seen — all day, until the rays of the after
noon sun slanted among the boles of the trees that
clustered along the fringe of Old Man's Creek.

There they stopped in jubilant mood ; built their
camp fires, laughing and frolicking with one
another; fried their bacon and boiled their coffee

The Flag of Truce 141

with many rude jests; they smoked their pipes,
lying on the ground beneath the trees in the first
twilight of the May evening; and there, insolently
defying such of their officers as tried to restrain
them, they drank deeply out of many black bottles,
roistering and carousing.

Mortimer Randolph sat apart from the men of
Frake's company, of which chance had made him
one. He was disturbed and anxious concerning the
spirit of the troops. He was made fearful by the
black bottles. He knew they would soon be in a
temper beyond restraining, and that Indians were
close at hand. He was certain in his own mind that
Black Hawk would not fight unless forced to defend
himself. There was nothing reassuring in the atti
tude of the militia, as they sang and cursed and
joked, reviling the Indians and filling the end of
the day with threats. Deep in a mood of abstrac
tion, he arose from the log on which he sat and
wandered through the little grove, casting over in
his mind what might be done to avert the clash
between the militia and the Sacs.

Frake, whose eyes had not been long absent
from Randolph at any time of the carousal, in which
he indulged with his men, saw him go.

"D'you see that?" he muttered to his compan
ions. "See him sneaking off like that? Some-
tliin's up! He'll bear watching, that man
Randolph!"

142 A Knight of the Wilderness

Half a dozen of his followers staggered to their
feet.

' * By God ! we '11 watch him, ' ' they growled, tak
ing their guns in hand and stumbling over the
uneven ground with uncertain steps.

Frake arose among them, expostulating. He
pleaded with them to do nothing rash in much the
same manner that he had lately pleaded with
Eachel Hall to spare the man's reputation whose
life he had now brought in jeopardy.

"Don't be in a hurry, men!" he cried, clinging
to a pair of them with his fat hands. "I am not
sure about him; I only say to watch him. If he
tries anything, there will be time enough ! ' '

The men were not in a temper to weigh evidence.
They pushed Frake aside, protesting loudly that
they would have no traitors in camp. Their indig
nation grew to anger, their anger swelled into rage.
A score of others leaped to their feet. The excite
ment of the chase and the liquor was working on
the hatred of the redmen that was in each. They
became frenzied. Frake no longer held control.

Major Stillman, hastening thither at the sound
of the turmoil, was helpless. Major Bailey pleaded
with them in vain. They were a mob. They cried
out for the blood of this man Randolph, traitor and
spy. With a hoarse roar they turned whither he
had disappeared — fivescore men, maddened by
liquor and brute passion. Frake, appalled by the
violence of the storm he had brewed, stood speech-

The Flag of Truce 143

less, watching them with staring eyes, his jaws
hanging in the folds of fat beneath his chin. His
device had worked too well. The explosion was
taking place too soon for the one who had lighted
the fuse.

Those who followed Randolph, seeking his blood
as that of a traitor, had gone scarcely a rod, when
the one who led them gave a mighty yell, and stood
in his tracks. Twenty feet ahead of them, approach
ing through the grove, were three Indians. One of
them carried a flag of truce. With them was the
man Randolph, whom they sought.

"Indians!" shouted the leader.

"Shoot 'em! Hang 'em. Kill the dirty red
skins ! ' '

Some one in the mob shouted it. Some one fired
a shot. The bullet struck the stick to which the flag
of truce was fastened. It was shattered in the hand
of the one who held it. The flag fell into the dirt.
The Indians, astonished at their reception, stared
blankly at the soldiers, appreciating their danger,
but undaunted. A hoarse roar arose from many
throats.

"What is this for?" cried Mortimer, leaping
before the Indians and confronting the men, his
eyes flaring, his nostrils dilated with wrath. "Why
do you fire on a flag of truce?"

Drunken and raging though they were, there
was something about the appearance and behavior
of the man that withheld the hands of the soldiers

144 A Knight of the Wilderness

from their guns. They could not shoot him down
in cold blood without a word. His single soul was
stronger than their many.

"Where M you find them Indians?" demanded
one of the men, less drunk than his fellows. "Who
are they? What do they want!"

"I met them coming through the woods with a
flag of truce," Mortimer replied, "and conducted
them into camp. "They have come from the Hawk
to parley. They are asking for peace, I infer."

"What were you doing in the woods?" asked the
one who had spoken first, the suspicions which
Frake had aroused strong within him.

"I was endeavoring to get away from the
drunken and shameless behavior of the men who
should be soldiers!" Mortimer answered back.

Frake, impelled by a curiosity that overcame
the fear endangered by his responsibility for the
outburst, came to the front of the mob. At sight
of the Indian in whose hand was the broken stick
that had carried the flag, he swelled with rage ; the
rage of a bully who sees his enemy; when he feels
himself at an advantage in the presence of his
enemy. The Indian was White Eagle!

"I know this Indian and I know this white man,"
he bellowed, starting forward with a courage
inspired by the temper of the men behind him.
"Come on!" He grasped a gun from the hand of
a soldier. He could not shoot, for men from other
parts of the camp, drawn by the noise, had sur-

The Flag of Truce 145

rounded the group of Indians and were in the line
of fire.

The half -crazed men, who had hesitated for lack
of a leader, pressed forward with a roar of anger.
They were a mob once more. The Indians could
not understand what was said. They only knew
their danger was great. They stood behind the one
who championed them, erect and defiant.

The mob surged forward, paying no heed to the
frantic shouts of Stillman and Bailey, who would
have held them back. With a rush, they closed
about the Indians, who stood motionless and unre
sisting, true to the flag of truce, which lay in the
dirt at their feet.

As they came, Mortimer Eandolph fought them
back. Without a weapon of any kind, he struggled
against the mass with body and limb. His white
fist, flashing through the air, fell upon the soft flesh
of Frake's face, bowling him over heavily. Twice,
twenty times, he struck about him. One of the
Indians was felled with the butt of a gun, and lay
motionless on the ground. Bailey, tears in his eyes,
tore at the fringe of the mob in vain efforts to stop
the work that went on. Stillman, struggling where
the turmoil was highest, gave what protection he
could to the savages, who were now beginning to
fight back, seeing no hope of help left in the whites.

Frake, clambering to his feet, his face suffused
with blood from Kandolph's blow, fought his way
toward the Southerner, his knife in hand and a

146 A Knight of the Wilderness

horrid snarl upon his lips. Great was the bravery
of Frake, one of an hundred against one who
resisted alone! He came to the side of Mortimer,
whose face was turned away in the exigencies of
the struggle. Frake 's knife was raised. His wrist
stiffened for the blow. He set his teeth. In the
instant, while the impulse was traveling from his
brain to the nerves of his arm, Mortimer turned.
And in the instant his hand grasped the wrist of
Frake, twisted it, and sent the man to the ground,
crumpled with pain.

* * Indians ! Indians ! ' '

Someone came crying the alarm through the
woods. At the cry, the fury subsided from the
tempestuous mob as boiling ceases when a kettle is
removed from the stove. There were no grada
tions in the going down of the ebullition. It stopped
at once. Those who had been frantic with rage
paused to listen to the one who came through the
woods, crying as he ran.

"Indians! Indians!" he said, coming up to the
panting group. "A swarm of them, over there!"

He pointed across the prairie. There, in the
gathering dusk, they saw five savages, mounted on
horses, riding slowly across the skyline beyond the
camp. At the sight their cries arose again, and
fury broke upon them once more, directed this time
against the five men they saw. With one accord,
oblivious of the authority of their officers, each for
himself, they rushed to their horses, saddled them

The Flag of Truce 147

as swiftly as they could, and started in complete
disorder for the five whom they had seen. In the
diversion, the two of the peace party who had sur
vived the fanaticism of these American militiamen
vanished into the grove.

Major Bailey, seeing the stampede of his sol
diers, mounted and followed. Major Stillman
endeavored to form such men as had not already
taken the field on their own initiative. Frake,
purple with wrath, dashed after a knot of his own
command. Eandolph, leisurely saddling, kept wary
eye on all that went forward. His heart was heavy
writhin him, for he knew that now the struggle had
been precipitated. One comfort he found. The one
of the three truce bearers who now lay dead in the
camp was not the tall young brave whom he had
seen on the hill at Saukenuk the year before, and
whom he had recognized in the one who carried the
flag of truce.

The five Indians, seeing the rush of men toward
them, put spurs to their horses, and were soon out
of sight. Shouting and cursing, the militiamen
dashed across the prairie on their trail. In vain
did Stillman, riding hard behind them, shout his
commands in an effort to bring them in hand. They
laughed at him.

A cry went up from those who led the van of the
straggling pursuers. Ahead of them, riding forth
from a fringe of thicket, was a small band of Indi-

148 A Knight of the Wilderness

ans. At their front, vengeful and magnificent, rode
the one who had borne the flag of truce.

The Americans pressed on, exultant, to brush
away this handful. The Indians, pretending fright,
withdrew to the thicket. Their pursuers, believing
themselves already victors, spurred their horses
more keenly, that not one of the savages might
escape. A long, ragged line of horsemen drew near
the thicket where the Indians had vanished. Like
conquerors they rode, shouting ribaldry to each
other through the pale shadows of the evening.

A shot from the thicket ! Another ; and another !
A dozen! A score! A cry that was half a scream
tore along the thin, ragged line. One man, shriek
ing, tottered and fell from his saddle to the ground.
His horse, in panic, wheeled and stampeded back
across the prairie. Eeins were drawn. Steeds
plowed through the soft ground on their haunches,
suddenly held up by their riders.

A wild yell arose from the thicket; a cluster of
mounted Indians broke cover, and ran fiercely
toward the line of whites, brandishing spears and
hatchets, guns and knives.

"Bun, men. Eun for your lives!"

It was Major Bailey gave the order; the only
order which his command had ever obeyed with the
alacrity which marks good soldiery. As fast as
they could bring their horses to a stop and turn
them, the men wheeled and fled back toward their
camp. Major Stillman, arriving with the handful

The Flag of Truce 149

that he had gathered into formation, faced them
about and bade them fly for their lives, as his junior
had done, giving them at the same time an eloquent
object lesson in retreating.

Of the whole force of three hundred and fifty
men, but one rode toward the enemy. That one,
mounted on a beautiful roan that quivered with the
excitement of the firing, went steadily forward to
a clump of woods where his quick eye told him a
stand could best be made. Fugitives, crazed with
fear, passed him, shouting that Black Hawk with
his thousands was after them.

The Indians, breaking into four squads of ten
or a dozen each, struck off in different directions
of pursuit. One squad, larger than the other, made
for the clump of trees in the prairie toward which
Mortimer rode. It was led by the brave who had
carried the flag of truce. As he came on, Mortimer
marveled at the speed which had enabled him to get
back from the American camp to his friends in time
to join in the fight.

Entering the clump of trees at one side before
the Indians had reached the other, Mortimer
glanced hastily about to see if there were any
nucleus of a force to which he might attach himself.
Of all the three hundred and fifty he alone deplored
the struggle with Black Hawk, and desired that
there might have been no quarrel. Of all the three
hundred and fifty, he was the only one who seemed
ready to fight, now that the unhappy time had come

150 A Knight of the Wilderness

— the only one save a small knot of men whom he
saw at last standing in the woods on the edge of a
little stream, prepared to meet the oncoming sav
ages — Major Perkins, Captain Adams, men whom
he had known in the march, with a handful of men
about them. Putting spurs to his horse, he leaped
the creek and galloped toward them.

As he rode, the Indian yell was heard in the
fringe of the clump of trees. Some of the men with
the two officers, firing once, broke and fled on their
horses. Some of them stayed. Among those who
fled was Frake — his fury made impotent by his
terror. He came in his flight toward Mortimer.
His face was distorted by passion and fear. His
eyes protruded from his head.

Close behind him pursued the Indian who had
borne the flag of truce; whose strong fingers had
once been about the neck of the man he pursued.
Now they would not give over their hold, if once
they made it fast, until the carcass of the man went
limp in their grasp. Frake, turning, saw the Indian
.and groaned. Mortimer felt the whiff of his flight
as he sped past. He saw the Indian raise himself
from his horse's back, poising his spear. He saw
the dun arm whip through the air. He saw the
streak of the spear against a bit of sky that peeped
among the trees, as it flew toward the retreating
man.

As it flew, he struck through the air with his gun,
as quick as a cat might have done with its paw, and

The Flag of Truce 151

struck the javelin from its course. The Indian, in
mad career, was abreast of him. Until then, the
savage had not seen him, so intent was he upon the
other. Gripping his horse mightily with his knees,
Randolph flung his arm about the waist of the
brave, swept him from his seat and threw him to
the ground, where he lay for the moment gasping
and breathless. Spurring his own horse, Randolph
rode toward the few who stood now the center of a
whirling group of screaming savages.

Not for long did the struggle last. Charging
through the Indians from the outside with yells and
blows of his clubbed gun, he scattered them for a
breath, and in another breath they were gone, in
search of a prey that did not fight. Bodies lay upon
the ground, writhing in the dark shadows of the
trees. Randolph dismounted, hoping there might
be some whom he could succor. As he passed
among them, leaning over to feel for their pulse, to
listen to their breathing, the last of them gasped
and lay still.

With a heavy heart he remounted "Powhatan,"
and made his way to camp, cautious and watchful.

CHAPTEE XI
MASSACRE

MORTIMER RANDOLPH rode through the
woods lying between Dixon's Ferry and
Ottawa in the heart of a May morning. The sun
shone softly upon him through the tender leaves of
the new fledged trees. The flowers smiled up at him
from the mold. Birds twittered among the branches
overhead, busy with their nests. The heart of Mor
timer was light within him; he rode whistling a
tune; for on his return his way would lie through
Indian Creek.

He was bearing expresses from Governor Rey
nolds to Ottawa, to be forwarded thence to Van-
dalia, the capital. The militia, alarmed by the
reports brought in by Stillman's stampeded men,
cowered in their camp at Dixon's, refusing in
their present numbers to go forth and fight. They
were growing mutinous, and threatened to return
to their homes. Governor Reynolds, in despair,
was sending to his capital for more help. It was
these messages which Mortimer carried on their
first relay.

Forgetting the sorrow and bitterness of the war
as he rode, thinking only of Sylvia, and what it was
he had to say to her, he passed beneath the trees,

152

Massacre 153

flecked with the sunlight that fluttered through the
leaves, eager and joyous. At intervals as he rode
he took from the breast of his coat a large envelope,
looked into it with an expression of the highest sat
isfaction, and replaced it tenderly. It was the letter
he had received at New Salem the day before he
had first set out for Indian Creek.

He was in the midst of one of these inspections,
after he had been riding upward of an hour, when
he heard a horse coming along the trail ahead of
him. Powhatan first called his attention to the
sound of the animal's steps by a series of soft
snorts. The times being uncertain, Mortimer reined
his horse to the side of the path, behind a bush
which concealed them both, drew his pistol, cocked
it, and waited.

The one who approached was in no haste. He
came at a pace distractingly slow. Powhatan,
losing patience, pawed the turf — entirely without
noise, however — and looked petulantly at his mas
ter. Presently Mortimer saw the man coming
toward him. He was white. He rode with head
down, deep in meditation. His horse, taking advan
tage of his preoccupation, walked.

There was something familiar to Mortimer about
the appearance of the man. He eyed him more
attentively. It was Frake. He recalled then some
thing that had passed out of his mind — that Frake
had left Dixon's without announcing his errand
early on that morning, when he himself was waiting

154 A Knight of the Wilderness

for the despatches to be prepared. Without any
assigned reason, he conceived a suspicion from the
circumstance of his having come this way.

Frake 's horse, getting a sniff of Powhatan,
brought up short with a snort of surprise. Frake
snorted, too, at sight of a man drawn up beside the
trail behind a bush with a cocked pistol in his hand.
Observing on a second glance who it was that way
laid him, his first fright gave way to heavier fear
and keen distress. His face indicated confusion
and embarrassment, as well. He stammered, with
out forming any articulated syllables. Mortimer
smiled grimly at him.

' ' Well, Frake, it 's you, is it ? Pleasant morning
for a ride, isn't it?" he said. "You see," he went
on, his brown eyes closing to slits and the smile
vanishing from his face, "I am here a little sooner
than one might have expected. Now, I do n 't want
to be rude, Frake, but I '11 have to ask you to ride
on down the trail for a piece; and you need not
trouble yourself to look back."

"What if I won't do it?" growled Frake, per
ceiving that the other exhibited no signs of imme
diate hostility.

"Well, I hadn't thought what I might do under
those circumstances, because I think that you will,"
returned Mortimer, calmly, fingering his pistol in a
persuasive manner.

"What business you got ordering me?" snarled

Massacre 155

the other, his eyes gleaming with hatred. "You
bullying coward!"

" ;We shan't stop to discuss it, Frake — at the
present time." Mortimer added the qualifying
clause with distinct significance. "I am willing to
take my chances with the Indians, Frake, but I
do n 't want to be traveling with you too close
behind. Come, now ! I am somewhat in haste."

"What you going to do? Shoot me in the
back!" Frake intended insulting irony in his tone,
and in the leer which accompanied it.

"If I should, I apprehend that I should only be
saving someone else the trouble," returned Morti
mer, serenely. He swung his pistol impressively in
the direction of the trail toward Dixon's, without
further word. Frake, cursing beneath his breath,
started his horse and passed by him.

"You 've got the drop on me this time, you
blackguard," he muttered, "but I '11 get you yet!
I '11 get you yet ! ' '

Mortimer watched until he disappeared. Dis
mounting, he stole softly after him for a distance,
to make sure that he continued on his course.
Mounting again, he took up his way toward Ottawa.

"Frake is a bad customer, I am afraid,
Powhatan," he said, as he rode. "We are likely
to have trouble with him before we are through;
though I can't entirely understand why we should
have aroused his enmity."

Powhatan seemed to share in the premoni-

156 A Knight of the Wilderness

tion and the perplexity of his master, for he flicked
his ears a number of times, and whinnied softly as
he fell into his lope.

They had traveled for an hour or two from the
time of the meeting with Frake. Mortimer, think
ing of many things, had forgotten it. His wary eyes
no longer studied the thickets and covers as he rode.
Suddenly Powhatan, snorting, stood still in the
trail, his ears erect, his limbs trembling with excite
ment. Mortimer, recalled to the present, followed
the stare of the animal, fixed upon a clump of bushes
at a short distance to the left of the trail.

"Well, boy, what it is? Indians?" he said,
addressing the horse, as he was accustomed to do
when they traveled alone.

The horse nickered. Penetrating the bush with
his gaze, Mortimer saw a pair of eyes and an Indi
an's face, nearly hidden by the leaves — a sinister,
hangdog face. Half of one of the Indian's ears —
the right one — was lopped off. As he looked, with
a faint remembrance of the face and the half ear in
his mind, there was a flash from the bush, a puff of
smoke, the crack of a musket. A bullet whistled
past his head. The face vanished.

Driving his spurs into the quivering withers of
Powhatan, he rushed toward the bushes. The
horse could not penetrate. He threw himself from
its back and struggled through the tangled boughs,
his pistol cocked, his eyes peering among the leaves.
He found no trace of the ambuscade, and returned

Massacre 157

to Powhatan. Mounting, he rode cautiously for
ward, looking on all sides as he went.

"By George, Powhatan!" he exclaimed, when
he had ridden a few paces. "That is the Indian
Frake met at Saukenuk! I recall him now. He is
the one whom the Indian woman called Half Ear,
when we found him on the hill that day.
Powhatan, my boy, there's something behind
this ! If we only knew what it was, old fellow, we
should probably know what Frake was doing out
this way so early this morning. Well, Half Ear,"
he added, apostrophizing the Indian, "by your looks
I should judge you were in fit company ! ' '

The mystery was not enough to hold his mind
from what it had been dwelling upon as he rode, and
by the time he had reached Ottawa the incident of
the ambush was submerged beneath the flood of
fancies that buoyed up his heart. He did not tarry
long there. He waited only to bait his horse after
he had delivered his messages. As for himself, it
did not occur to him to eat, though he had ridden
nearly fifty miles since the morning.

It was late in the afternoon before he was on his
way to Indian Creek. It was so late that in ordi
nary circumstances he would not have started again
that day. But there was that in his heart which
would not wait.

Powhatan felt it, too. He swung off down
the road that led along the edge of the prairie to the
little settlement, a dozen miles away, as though he

158 A Knight of the Wilderness

had that moment come fresh from his stall. His
ears played as his master talked to him ; with every
bound he gave a little confidential snort in response.
His master laid no hand on him, letting him take
his own pace. The miles reeled away behind his
heels. An hour passed at the same swinging lope.
Scarcely two miles of the way was left.

"Good fellow, Powhatan!" exclaimed Mortimer
Randolph, in great spirits, looking over his shoul
der at the sun, which hung low in the west. "We '11
make it before sundown. ' '

The horse tossed his head, as though he had
intended to do so from the first, and stuck to his gait
with even breath. Overhead the blue sky was pal
ing into grey. Larks, springing from the ground
as he passed, fluttered away with song in their
throats. A soft wind made sheen over the lush
grass. The odor of spring was in the air. The feel
of it was abroad. The lips of Mortimer sang a song
as he went, with eyes searching the landscape for
the first view of the settlement in among the trees
near the creek.

"There is the place, Powhatan!" he cried, fixing
his eyes on the woods. "Eight behind that thick
point in the grove."

Powhatan, making answer with a series of low
snorts, quickened his pace. The sun, red in the
western sky, cast a crimson glow over the prairie.
Shadows thickened in the woods. Behind the woods
as they approached lifted a thick head of smoke.

Massacre 159

" Strange how these people out here go to the
labor of clearing the forests for a place for their
fields, when they have all these wide and fertile
prairies to hand," he remarked, habituated to
express his thoughts aloud when he was alone with
his horse. He had observed the smoke and supposed
the settlers were burning brush.

Half a mile ! The smoke rose higher.

"That 's a pretty big bonfire they 're burning,
old fellow," said Mortimer, looking at it earnestly,
some wonder in his gaze.

A quarter of a mile! The black billows swelled
above the trees.

' ' Powhatan ! Did you hear that I ' '

Mortimer, leaning forward in his saddle, listened
intently, his hand behind his ear. He had heard a
cry. Powhatan pricked his ears and snorted once,
softly. He had heard it, too. His feet fell more
lightly on the ground. He slackened his pace for
an instant.

Across the glow of sunset that was upon the
prairie, from the direction of the headland of woods,
it came again — a sound that checked the currents
of Mortimer's blood — the cry of a man in the last
extremity! Powhatan, hearing it, snorted loudly
and broke into a gallop. Mortimer, pale, distraught
with dread and suspense, compressed his lips, and
said no word.

Another sound reached his ear; sharp, weird,
frightful.

160 A Knight of the Wilderness

1 'Great God, Powhatan! Indians!" cried the
rider.

Powhatan, snorting loudly, laid back his ears
and quickened into a run. The face of Mortimer,
paler still, grew intense. His eyes stared before.
His breath came quickly.

' ' Powhatan ! Powhatan ! " he whispered hoarsely,
encouraging him to greater exertion. "Powhatan!
Powhatan!" as the horse flew across the even
prairie road.

Gaining speed with every bound, lengthening his
stride, his body close and closer to the ground as
he leaped, the horse ran such a race as he had never
run. The grass streaked past, green and red
beneath the glow of the sunset heavens.

The eager eyes of Mortimer, fixed on the spot
where the settlement was, saw the smoke arising
higher above the trees; the column filling swiftly
into a dark, whirling volume, tumbling upward.
The lower surfaces of it glowed ruddy as it rolled
and bellied. The top of it glinted with the setting
sun. The glare of flames shone between the trunks
of the trees. With it all was a horrible stillness.

"Now, Powhatan, let your breeding tell! Let
the pride of your long line reach greater renown!
There is none to watch you save only one ; but never
was race run for greater stakes !"

Three hundred yards lay between them and the
point of trees, behind which was the place where

Massacre 161

the houses were, or had been. Two hundred! A
hundred yards ! Faster, faster, he sped !

His master no longer whispered his name into
the leveled ears. Another name was upon the man's
lips, spoken fervently, in the voice of one who prays.

"Sylvia! Sylvia!"

Now he could catch glimpses between the boles
of the trees that formed the point; glimpses of
seething masses of fire, from which dense columns
of smoke rushed into the air. The sound of flames
came to his ears ; a muttering, growling, heavy roar,
sprinkled with faint, crackling noises. There was
no other sound, save that of Powhatan's hoofs
echoed from the wall of trees.

The point was gained. Powhatan, trembling
from the strain of his exertions and excitement,
wheeled close about the last tree. He sped toward
that which had been the settlement of Indian Creek.
As he turned, a groan came from the lips of his
master.

The few houses that had comprised the settle
ment were now pyramids of leaping fire. Flames
struck through the windows of the cabin where
Sylvia had lived. They licked hungrily about the
red lips of the logs. They lapped at the outer sur
faces. Tiny blazes sprang up behind them as they
swung.

In the whole view there was no man or woman,
unless a hideous heap that lay some paces from the
houses near the creek might still be called a man —

162 A Knight of the Wilderness

or a woman. Over all was the silence of mystery;
nothing but the flames to tell him what had become
of his beloved.

" Sylvia! Sylvia!'* he cried, throwing himself
from his horse, which stood gasping so close to the
burning houses that the heat was pungent upon the
man's face and hands.

"Sylvia!"

He ran toward the house. Only the tongues of
flame made answer to his cry of agony.

"Sylvia!"

His hurrying feet struck against something soft
and heavy. It was the body of William Hall, her
father. The lips were mute. The eyes gave back
no look.

He rushed to the house. The flames beat him
back. He ran to the edge of the little ridge over
looking the creek bottom to stare across the ground
with a dread upon him that dulled his soul. He was
calling her name, now softly, now with a shriek of
despair. Only the flames, roaring and chuckling,
made mocking answer. A sense of utter, desolate
solitude possessed him.

He ran whither Powhatan gasped for breath and
threw his arms around the animal's neck, to rid
himself of the feeling of loneliness that drove him
mad. His eyes were as the red windows of the
burning houses.

He hurried back to the cabin where she had
lived. He would enter there, through all the fires

Massacre 163

of hell ! The flames seared his face. He threw his
arms before it, to protect his eyes until they should
see — that which he sought. The fire singed his hair.
The heat of it in his nostrils stifled him. He gasped.
He threw back his head. He gathered strength to
rush though the flames. There would be but a
moment, and then

Out of the desolate solitude there came the voice
of some one calling him; calling him by name.
''Randolph! Randolph! For the love of God,
do n't go in there !" cried the voice.

He turned and staggered from the fire, beating
out the flames that had caught in his clothing. The
smoke pursued him. A huge, blazing arm, leaping
from the house, darted after him, enveloping him
for an instant. So vigorously it leaped that it tore
itself loose, and went hurling upward, a detached
sheet of flame, to flutter and disperse the heated air.
Blinded, gagging, he dragged himself free.

* ' Sylvia ! " he called again.

"Sylvia isn't in there," answered the voice.
"She is all right. She isn't killed. The Indians
have got her."

The voice was close in front of him. Sight,
returning to his eyes, revealed to him William Hall,
the brother, white with terror, but unharmed.
Mortimer groped about for speech.

"I don't think they '11 hurt the girls," repeated
Hall, dazed. "It was Pottowatomies that got them.
They won't hurt them."

164 A Knight of the Wilderness

"Which way did they go?" cried the other,
finding his voice.

"North," made answer William Hall, blankly.

"Have you a horse?"

"They took all the horses."

"Have you a gun?"

"The guns were in the house. Say, you can't
chase them!" burst forth the young man, realizing
what the other had in mind, and forgetting his
antipathy in the face of the calamity. "You 'd
never catch them. If you did, you could n't do any
thing. There are a hundred of them. Anyway, if
you tried it they would kill the girls, sure! They
would never let them get away like that ! ' '

Mortimer made no answer. He strode toward
his horse. Hall followed him as he went.

"See here! "he pleaded. "Don't try that! The
best thing you can do for the girls is to get to
Dixon's as soon as you can and give the alarm."

Mortimer paid no heed to the man. He reached
Powhatan's side. He placed his foot in the stirrup.
Hall laid hold of his arm.

"Don't go, I tell you! Don't be a fool!" he
cried. In crises enemies forget.

Mortimer threw off his hand, and swung himself
from the ground. As he did so Powhatan. groan
ing, staggered and fell, overborne in his exhaustion
by the weight of his master. Mortimer was scarcely
able to leap out from under.

Massacre 165

"What do you think you could do with that
horse!" ejaculated Hall, looking at the animal,
which made no effort to rise.

The accident brought reason back to the mind of
Mortimer. Gazing ruefully at Powhatan, he knelt
beside him and rubbed his nose.

"Are you ready to set out for Dixon's?" he
asked, presently. His voice was calm and contained.

Hall made answer that he was. The other urged
Powhatan to his feet, loosened the cinch, threw off
the bridle, and slung it over his arm.

"Come!" he said. "Let us be off."

They started through the gathering dusk,
Powhatan after them.

With much unction, as one to whom fame is
assured, William Hall told of the attack made that
afternoon upon the settlers ; how the band of Potto-
watomies, led by Mike Girty, whom he knew, had
descended upon them; how his father and mother
and the Davises, and all the settlers, save his sisters
and himself, had been killed and scalped, together
with minute details of the preceding and attendant
circumstances.

Mortimer, trudging by his side through the dark
ness of night, heard little of the story. His thoughts
could not fasten on more than one fascinating fact.
But this he heard, as they walked through the night :

"Three of them were Sacs. One of the Sacs
was the worst looking Indian I ever saw; a little,

166 A Knight of the Wilderness

weazened fellow with a crooked face. One half of
his right ear had been cut off sometime!"

Whereat the thoughts of the listener passed
swiftly away from what he was thought to be
hearing.

CHAPTER XII

A MESSAGE FOE THE HAWK

ENEEAL WHITESIDE, sir, General Atkin-
son is right. His only mistake is that he is
not emphatic enough. The militia, as it is, is worth
less — it is worse than worthless. It would be much
better if we could send them all home to their women
and let the regulars catch the old fox ; but the orders
we have from Washington make it necessary for us
to send the militia into the field. Therefore we must
make them effective by drill and discipline before
they make any advance. Your men, sir, look upon
this campaign as a pleasure excursion contrived for
their benefit and enjoyment. They must be taught
that it is war, sir ; war ! ' '

Colonel Zachary Taylor, seated at the right hand
of General Atkinson at the dining table in John
Dixon's tavern, delivered himself in this fashion to
General Whiteside and the members of a council of
officers, punctuating his speech with many jerkings
of his round, hard head and thumpings upon the
table. Opposite to him, in some concern over the
nature of the colonel's remarks, sat Major Robert
Anderson, U. S. A. At his right was Second Lieu
tenant Jefferson Davis, his aide, a young man of
elegant and handsome features and an air of high

167

168 A Knight of the Wilderness

breeding; courageous, chivalrous, haughty. Dis
posed about the board were General Whiteside,
Governor Reynolds, Major Henry, Major Stillman,
Major Bailey, Captain Fry and a number of the
officers of the militia.

Among them, at the bottom of the table, incon
spicuous, retiring, modestly listening to the discus
sion that went forward, was one who, in the fullness
of time, was to sit at other war councils in the land
with the weight of his country upon his shoulders.
If Abraham Lincoln had been told that day that the
brilliant young lieutenant sitting at the right hand
of the rugged colonel, whose handsome face, dis
tinguished bearing, high culture, and easy manner
he admired and half envied as he watched him,
should some day be opposed to him at the head of
the bitterest and most tragic struggle in history, he
would probably have expressed his opinion of the
prophecy in an appropriate anecdote.

Major Bailey exhibiting symptoms of resent
ment at the colonel's condemnation of the militia,
Taylor turned to him.

"Major Bailey will be able to substantiate what
I have said," he remarked. "He has seen the
militia in action under excellent opportunities for
observation. He knows how well they fight !"

Governor Eeynolds, under the obligation
imposed by his office, found it necessary to under
take a mild defence of the people of his State, to
which Colonel Taylor was about to reply with some

A Message for the Hawk 169

heat when General Atkinson diplomatically inter
posed for the sake of peace.

''My contention is not that the militia is totally
unfit for service, gentlemen," he said, "though we
are all agreed, I think, that they could be made more
effective by stricter discipline and drill. There are
other elements to the problem, however. The temper
of the men must be considered. ' '

"They must be taught temper!" interrupted
Colonel Taylor.

"The process would require time, colonel,"
returned his superior. "It is necessary to bear in
mind that the men are so unused to restraint that
it is a question whether strict military rigor might
not impair their value at first, rather than increase
it, by destroying their present enthusiasm, which
has revived, and arousing their resentment. They
would not readily relinquish their civil rights. Gen
eral Whiteside reports that they are now chafing to
take up the pursuit of Black Hawk, and that their
morale is rapidly disintegrating under the enervat
ing effects of their enforced inactivity, which is a
circumstance to be considered in dealing with
civilian soldiers.

' ' For we are forced to deal with them in the dual
capacity, colonel," he added to Taylor, who gave
symptoms of an eruption; "added to which is the
fact that the situation demands that a blow be
struck at the Indians without further delay. If
Black Hawk intends to join the Winnebagos, as is

170 A Knight of the Wilderness

reported, any time that may be afforded him is to
our marked disadvantage — to say nothing of the
alarm in which the country has been thrown by his
continuing at large. Therefore I must beg of you,
gentlemen, to come to a consideration of the prob
lem which the council was called to solve; namely,
where and how to strike the blow ! ' '

For an hour the discussion ran high. Plans of
campaign by the score were proposed and disposed
of. The debate drifted 'round and 'round, always
striking at last upon the snag of unwillingness, or
unfitness, to do the tasks involved in the several
schemes. The men would not consent, many of
them, their officers said, to go out of the State in
pursuit of the Hawk ; they were not equipped for a
long campaign ; as a force they were cumbrous and
unmanageable. The council grew acrimonious.
General Atkinson, continually rapping on the table
for order, found it difficult to preserve the decorum
of the meeting. Nothing was coming of it but
jealousy and friction.

A lull came. They were back where they began.
There was a reluctance on the part of all to precipi
tate the discussion again. In the lull, Abraham Lin
coln arose from his chair, unfolding his gaunt height
and looking down at the assembled men with a half
whimsical, half serious expression on his face.

"Gentlemen," he drawled, "I am no soldier. I
have no advice. I should hardly presume to offer
it, if I thought I was in possession of any. I have

A Message for the Hawk 171

listened to all that has been said, and it reminds me
of two men down in Kentucky who caught a 'possum
in a box trap. One of them wanted to cut it up and
fry it, and the other thought it would be better
stewed. They got into a pretty warm discussion
over it. Finally they decided that they would cut
the animal in halves, and each do what he wanted
with his part. They shook hands on that, and went
to get the 'possum. When they opened the trap, it
was gone. They had left the box a-tilt when they
talked, and Mister 'Possum had squirmed out. Now,
not being a soldier, there are things about the situa
tion that I cannot hope to understand, but to the
mind of a civilian it would seem advisable to find
Black Hawk before we chastise him!"

Even Zachary Taylor laughed when Lincoln fin
ished and sat down, the whimsically serious expres
sion still on his face. The mirth subsiding, Lieu
tenant Davis arose to his feet. He bestowed a smile
of patronizing indulgence upon the one who had just
spoken.

" Gentlemen, " he said, "the point taken by Cap
tain — Captain ' '

* ' Lincoln ! ' ' prompted the owner of the name.

"By Captain Lincoln is well taken. We have
only the most meager information concerning Black
Hawk's whereabouts and intentions. Some report
him to be in the immediate vicinity; others say he
is at Koshkonong, and others that he is on the
Dalles of the Ouisconsin. If General Atkinson will

172 A Knight of the Wilderness

permit me, I will go with a dozen picked men and
determine where he is. ' '

He resumed his seat. There was a moment of
silence. In the midst of it the door of the room was
opened. John Dixon, visibly excited, appeared,
bringing with him Mortimer Randolph, haggard and
disheveled. He had come from Indian Creek, alter
nately riding his tired horse and hurrying on foot
with Powhatan stumbling behind him. Now, late in
the morning, he had reached Dixon 's with the news,
leaving Hall behind him to come as he could.

At sight of him, Jefferson Davis started from
his chair in astonishment, with an exclamation.
With the look of surprise in his face was mixed
pleasure and gladness. In a moment the gladness
vanished, and he sank back in his seat with a stare
of doubt and distrust. Mortimer, scarcely glancing
at him, gave his presence no acknowledgment. Pale
and trembling from fatigue and emotion, he drew
himself up into formal military position and saluted
General Atkinson.

"I have the honor to report, sir, that Indians
last evening attacked and massacred the settlers at
Indian Creek," he said, in the dead level of the
military voice. "I have the honor to report that
fifteen men, women, and children were killed, and
that the two daughters of William Hall, who was
killed, were taken away alive by the Indians."

As he said this he turned toward Lincoln, with
a look of horror and anguish on his face. It passed

It reminds me of two men down in Kentucky ivho
cauglit a 'possum in a box trap."

A Message for the Hawk 173

in a moment. Lincoln, oblivious of formality, arose
and went to his side, putting an arm about his shoul
ders. Jefferson Davis continued to stare, puzzled
and uncertain, with doubt still in his mind. A
clamor went up about the table; the militia officers
arose from their chairs and crowded around the
bearer of the news in high excitement. General
Atkinson, tapping loudly upon the table, with the
hilt of his sword, called them to order and sent them
to their seats, reminding them that they were at a
council. Motioning Eandolph to a chair, and wait
ing until he drank the glass of whiskey John Dixon
brought to him, he formally and in prescribed man
ner bade him make his report more fully, permitting
him to remain in his chair the while, out of consid
eration for his exhausted condition.

Before Mortimer finished a commotion was heard
in the camp of the militia. There was much angry
shouting, and cries for vengeance upon the savages.
William Hall, who had found a fresh horse at a
settlement and had followed Mortimer closely, had
arrived and told his story to the men. Shouting,
they came toward headquarters, demanding to be
despatched at once in pursuit.

Doubt no longer remained in the council of offi
cers. They must be sent to the fight when the mood
was on them. Governor Beynolds, springing to his
feet, spoke fervently for a moment, pleading for
immediate action. General Atkinson issued a few
hasty orders. The officers of militia left to prepare

174 A Knight of the Wilderness

their troops to march at once. Lincoln, whose look
of tender commiseration had never left the face of
Mortimer, passed behind his friend on the way out
and pressed a hand upon his shoulder. The touch
was more eloquent than many words.

Mortimer remained at the table with General
Atkinson, Colonel Taylor, Major Robert Anderson
and Lieutenant Davis. The last named was still
looking at him with a mixture of eagerness and
reluctance, as though high regard for the man con
tended with suspicion of him. There was a period
of bustle ; orderlies running in and out, orders given,
reports made, and questions asked and answered.
In the first lull, Mortimer, in whose face there was
no trace of knowledge that Jefferson Davis was
present, turned toward General Atkinson with
another salute and addressed him.

"May I be permitted to speak, sir?" he asked, in
a formal and perfunctory manner.

General Atkinson gave consent with a nod
befitting his office.

"There is no need to say that the young women
who were abducted by the Indians are in precarious
circumstances," he said, in perfect calm. His
strength was reviving fast. "It is not necessary to
point out that, should they escape immediate harm,
their danger would be increased if our soldiers
should press Black Hawk too closely.

"Their value as hostages cannot be lost upon the
chief. May I be permitted to carry to the Hawk

175

official assurance from General Atkinson, represent
ing the United States Government, that in the event
of the safe return of the young women he will be
permitted to withdraw his band of Sacs to the west
ern side of the Mississippi, without molestation!
That, as I understand it, is the purpose of this
campaign ? ' '

General Atkinson drummed meditatively on the
table for a little, pursing his lips and cocking his
head. He was in two minds about submitting to the
effrontery of this civilian, who had the audacity to
interfere in military affairs. Impressed by a cer
tain unconscious air of assurance and importance
in the young man, he was finally led to do so.

"I think you are under some misapprehension
concerning the full purpose of this campaign, sir,"
he returned at length, heavily. "I do not conceive
it to be within the intention of the Government to
permit the Hawk to escape just punishment so
easily. He has defied the Government by his return,
and he must be made to suffer for it."

"Even at the expense of innocent and helpless
women 1 ' ' suggested Mortimer, quietly.

"War, sir, war, as you should know, is a deadly
enterprise," rejoined General Atkinson. "It
entails manifold sufferings, which often fall upon
the innocent. While I should personally deplore
any misfortunes that might be visited upon these
young women, I nevertheless should not deem it con
sistent with my duty as an officer of the United

176 A Knight of the Wilderness

States army to permit such considerations to divert
me from the purpose of the campaign, which is
being prosecuted under direct orders from the war
office at Washington/'

11 Which leave you no discretion?" hinted
Mortimer.

"None that I should care to exercise in the pres
ent instance," made answer General Atkinson, in
his mighty manner. The civilian was going too far
in his presumption. "I cannot feel otherwise than
that Black Hawk should be chastised as a beneficial
example for all Indians, without regard to cost. It
is establishing a dangerous precedent to permit him
to defy openly the authority of the United States,
and with impunity."

Mortimer arose with dignity.

"It is unfortunate that the chastisement is being
prosecuted in such a spirit on the part of the Govern
ment," he said, with complete equanimity and re
spect. ' ' In view of the fact that Black Hawk had no
intention of stirring up strife when he came across
the river this spring, it is deplorable. In view of the
fact that he would be glad to lead his tribe in peace
to the other side of the river if permitted to do so,
it is pitiful. It was these considerations, as well as
regard for the safety of the young women, which
induced me to make the suggestion to which you
have so kindly listened. Shall I be permitted to
inquire if any other method of assisting the young
ladies will be considered? I am going personally in

A Message for the Hawk 177

search of them, whether with or without a commis
sion from the authorities; can I be of service in
furthering any plans you may make I ' '

His calm determination, his quiet, unassuming
dignity, his pale, handsome face awoke the admira
tion of those who saw him standing before General
Atkinson, waiting for his reply. The look of distrust
and suspicion went quite out of the face of Jefferson
Davis for a moment. Colonel Zachary Taylor, look
ing at him searchingly, broke the silence which had
followed Mortimer's conclusion.

"The young man's idea is a good one!" he
exclaimed, vehemently, "if you will let me say so.
Let the young man go to Black Hawk. How do you
propose getting to Black Hawk!"

The colonel fired the question at him like a field
piece.

"I undertake to find him, sir," returned Mor
timer, quietly.

"Good!" ejaculated the other, snapping his jaws
and jerking his head, his approving eye the while
resting on Mortimer. "I have no doubt you will do
it — if you will take the trouble to eat something
before you start. ' '

The young man's haggard appearance had
caught his eye at the same time with the square jaw
and the look of resolve in the brown eyes.

"Now, let the young man go to Black Hawk,"
continued Colonel Taylor, "with the assurance from
General Atkinson that if he will deliver the young

178 A Knight of the Wilderness

women to us and surrender himself into the custody
of the United States authority, his people will be
permitted to cross west of the Mississippi without
being molested. If we get the old fox into custody
and get his followers across the river we shall have
done all we were sent to do; if we do it without
bloodshed, so much the better. If this young man is
going to Black Hawk, and I believe he is" — looking
keenly at him again — "he might as well bear such a
message. No harm can come of it.*'

"On what do you base a supposition that he
would consider such a proposal?" inquired General
Atkinson, with a trace of irony.

"On evidences which ought to be more or less
convincing to a military man," rejoined Colonel
Taylor, with some heat. "He doesn't want to fight;
he has all his women and children with him; he is
trying to get them out of trouble, while his young
men are covering his retreat with these raids which
are doing all the mischief that is being done. If we
can straighten this matter out in this way, we are
fortunate, and should do it. ' '

"You make no account of those he has killed
already?" suggested General Atkinson.

"You make no account of those he has not killed,
but might," ventured Major Anderson, entering the
discussion. "And is warfare a piece of vengeance?
Shall we count on our fingers the number killed by
the enemy and keep on fighting until we have killed
as many, regardless of the purposes of the war ? ' '

A Message for the Hawk 179

Premonitory nmtterings of a lively discussion
appearing about the council board, Mortimer inter
posed before the storm broke.

" Gentlemen, " he said, "I have no place at your
councils. I shall await your decision without. I
shall delay my departure for an hour. Within that
time you may find me at your pleasure. I have only
to ask that you will give me your personal assur
ances that the Government will abide by whatever
decision you may reach. I should not want, inad
vertantly, to be the instrument of more misunder
standings between Black Hawk and the United
States."

He withdrew from the room, not once glancing in
the direction of Jefferson Davis.

As he was seated beside a table in John Dixon's
kitchen half an hour later, finishing the last of the
dinner which the ferryman had brought him, Lieu
tenant Davis came to him.

"Sir, I have to report that you are requested to
deliver the enclosed message to the chief Black
Hawk, at your pleasure and discretion," he said to
Mortimer, standing stiffly by his side.

"Convey my thanks to your commanding offi
cer," returned Mortimer, looking over the contents
of the order that the lieutenant had brought. Davis,
ill at ease, watched him as he read. Mortimer
nodded his head approvingly as he finished. Eais-
ing his face, he turned it toward Lieutenant Davis.

"Was there anything further?" he asked, look-

180 A Knight of the Wilderness

ing him fully in the eye, without the least trace of
recognition.

"I thought perhaps you would have something
to say to me," faltered the other, growing confused
under the steady gaze.

Mortimer was silent.

"How did you come here, Mortimer?" burs'1;
forth the lieutenant, with a frank, friendly appeal
in his voice.

"I should infer from your bearing that you had
heard why I left West Point and Virginia," said
Mortimer, by way of answer. "I had to go some
where," he added.

"I can't believe it!" returned Lieutenant Davis,
fervently. "I heard, but can't believe it. In
Heaven's name, Mortimer, tell me that it is a
mistake ! ' '

He spoke with an eager affection, holding his
right hand toward the other. Mortimer ignored the
gesture.

"If it is necessary to tell you, it is not worth
while," he made answer, cooly. "Kindly commend
me to your commander, and tell him that I have
read his orders and shall endeavor to execute them. ' '

Without another word, he turned and walked to
his horse, still wearied from hard traveling. With
out casting a look to the right or the left he mounted
and rode to the north, leaving Lieutenant Davis to
stare after him in doubt and disappointment.

CHAPTER XIII
SANCTUARY

MORTIMER RANDOLPH rode through the
night in the direction the militia had taken,
up the east bank of the Rock River. He did not talk
to Powhatan, as his custom was, but rode silently,
revolving many things in his mind. Powhatan, flick
ing his ears for a space in dutiful attention, and find
ing him taciturn, gave it up, rather glad upon the
whole that his master was not in conversational
mood; for he himself was sumciently tired to do
without discourse.

Riding through the night, he came presently to a
low ridge whence he could see the glow of camp-
fires among the trees. Approaching close enough to
determine that it was Whiteside's men, Mortimer
sounded the army cry and went toward them.
Beyond giving back his cry they paid little atten
tion to him, supposing him to be some straggler who
had just come up from the march. As he came
closer he saw the long limbs of Abraham Lincoln
traced black across the firelight and his shadow
dancing mournfully in the tree tops as he stalked
back and forth at a distance from the blaze. He
looked like a grim ghost of melancholy.

Lincoln, absorbed in his own reflections, took no

181

182 A Knight of the Wilderness

more than passing notice of the new arrival. Indeed,
he was not aware of his identity until Mortimer, dis
mounting close beside him, placed a hand on his arm
and spoke to him.

"You frightened me," said Lincoln, quickly,
with a startled look. "I was thinking so much of you
that when I saw you at my side I believed you to be
a ghost. Why did you come? You should not have
come ! You are worn out. ' '

He said nothing of what was at the top of the
mind of each ; yet there was more in the touch of his
hand on the hand of the other and in the tone of his
voice than he could have spoken.

Mortimer made no reply until he had unsaddled
and unbridled Powhatan and smoothed his back.
The animal sighed deeply, rubbed his head against
his master, whinnied affectionately, and stretched
himself upon the ground, wholly exhausted. Mor
timer, seeing him comfortable, turned again to
Lincoln.

"You know why I came," he said, replying to
Lincoln's question. "I am going to find them. I am
going to try to save them. ' '

He threw himself wearily upon the grass.

"How do you mean? What are you going to
do?" asked Lincoln, sitting on the ground beside
him.

"I am going to hunt out Black Hawk," Mortimer
replied. "I am authorized to negotiate peace with
him on the terms that he gives up the young women

Sanctuary 183

and surrenders himself to the United States author
ity. I have written orders to that effect from
General Atkinson."

"Man, man!" cried Lincoln, "you will destroy
yourself. Do you expect that you will be able to
reach Black Hawk alive?"

"I must."

* ' But it is foolish ! It is a wild chance you take !
Look at it soberly ! We shall soon overtake him with
our troops, and deliver the young women from
him."

Mortimer paused before replying. "Do not
argue," he said, in a low voice. "I am not disposed
to argue. If I were, I could show you that it is the
only way; that their lives would be of slight value
if we gave the Hawk battle when they were in his
hands; that it is peculiarly my duty and my priv
ilege to go to their succor, and many other things.
Please do not compel me to the exertion; I am
weary of body and soul, and need rest."

"You would do your duty better if you did not
throw your life away on a foolish errand, ' ' retorted
Lincoln, not disposed to honor his request against
argument.

Mortimer made no immediate reply. He lay still
on the ground for a space. Raising himself upon
his elbow at last, so that the light of the distant
fire played in his brown eyes, he laid a hand on
Lincoln's knee and looked long into his face.

"If Ann Eutledge were in the hands of the

184 A Knight of the Wilderness

Indians, what would you do ? " he said, in a low and
solemn voice.

"My God!" groaned Lincoln, and fell silent.

"Have you eaten?" asked Lincoln, presently.

"I have eaten," replied the other. "To-night I
shall rest, and to-morrow we shall be ready,
Powhatan and I."

"Will you come closer to the fire? It is damp
here."

"I — I will stay here," replied Mortimer.

Lincoln understood his desire to be alone.

"I will find you a blanket," he said, and turned
to go to the camp.

As he approached the fire, a group of men were
gathering about it, in the highest excitement. One
of them, a short, round man with a short, round
head, bent over the blaze. In his hands he held a
paper which he was reading by the light of the
flames. Standing in the midst of the group was an
Indian, bent and withered with years. He watched
with an anxious face the man who read the paper.

" Where 'd you get this passport?" asked the
man, looking up from the paper. It was Isaac
Frake.

"General Cass, he give it to me," replied the
Indian in broken English. "He friend of red man.
Me friend of American. Misser Frake, you know
me. Me good Indian!"

"You bet I know you!" growled Frake. "This
is a damned forgery ! This is not his writing!"

Sanctuary 185

He shook the paper at the Indian. The red man,
filled with apprehension, held out his hand, pointing
at the passport.

" Paper good! Paper good!" he said. "Paper
no lie ! "

"Damn your hide!" bellowed Frake. "You're
a spy ! ' '

He took a step toward the savage, who raised his
hands helplessly.

"Kill him! Kill him!"

A dozen soldiers, raising the cry, snatched up
their muskets. Frake grasped the Indian by the
throat.

"We'll show you what we do with spies!" he
roared, cursing horribly.

"Shoot him! Kill him! Stand aside, Frake!"

A dozen muskets were leveled. Frake let go his
hold.

' * Give me a musket ! " he stouted, stepping back
to the others. " I'll fix him ! "

A soldier handed him a gun. He raised it. The
Indian, in despair, held out his hands imploringly.
"Me good Indian! Me good Indian!" he pleaded.
"Me friend of the white man."

A tall, angular figure emerged from the shadows
about the fire. In a bound, it stood before the
Indian. Abraham Lincoln, his face wrought into
fury, his pupils distended and glittering, faced the
dozen muskets.

"Men, this must not be done! He must not be

186 A Knight of the Wilderness

shot and killed by us!" His voice rang above the
hoarse shouting of the soldiers, the curses of Frake.

For a moment the men stood defiant, their mus
kets leveled at the two. They muttered. They
cursed. They threatened. Lincoln's eyes, black with
wrath, fixed theirs.

A fateful silence brooded over the scene. The
eyes of the soldiers fell beneath the steady gaze of
Lincoln. Angry and sullen, they lowered their
muskets.

* ' This is cowardly on your part, Lincoln ! ' ' cried
Frake.

"If any man thinks I am a coward, let him test
it!" Lincoln's face was frightful to look upon.

"You are larger and heavier than we!" retorted
the other.

"This you can guard against. Choose your
weapons ! ' '

His huge hands clenched and unclenched. His
face worked with passion.

Mortimer Randolph, aroused by the disturbance,
came and stood beside him. Frake, with vile oaths,
glared at him hatefully for a moment, and turned
away muttering. The soldiers, morose and grum
bling, scattered about the fire, glancing balefully
from the corners of their eyes at the group. Lincoln
stood where he was for a space.

"Come," he said, presently, addressing the In
dian. "I will look out for you."

They went away, Mortimer following at a dis-

Sanctuary 187

tance, watching the sulking men about the fire. As
they went, the Indian, pointing to Frake and gestic
ulating, spoke excitedly to his rescuer, who looked
at Frake several times as he walked away, listening,
and nodded his head. Eandolph joined them. They
lay upon the ground where Mortimer had lain,
Lincoln remaining awake to watch.

Frake, grumbling and boasting, drank deeply
from the black bottle he took from his shirt, and lay
down by the fire among the soldiers.

"Our friend Eandolph seems to love the Indians
as much as ever," he said to William Hall, who lay
next to him, rolled up in a blanket.

Isaac Frake, standing erect with the morning
sun red on his face, gazed at the form of William
Hall, still sleeping at his feet. Thrice he nudged him
in the ribs with his toe. Hall, not yet entirely recov
ered from the fatigue of his trip from Indian Creek,
rolled over sleepily, with a grunt and a curse.

"Hall! Hall!" called Frake, when he stirred.
"The dirty cur has gone!"

Hall, sitting up by degrees, rubbed his eyes and
yawned. "Who's gone?" he asked, blinking.

"Both of 'em."

"Both o' who?"

"The Indian and that man Eandolph."

" Where 'd they go!" asked Hall, with kindling
interest.

Frake answered the question with silent con-

188 A Knight of the Wilderness

tempt. "Do you know who that Indian was?" he
asked, in return, preparing the way for a startling
revelation.

"Of course I don't," rejoined William Hall. "He
seemed to know you, all right."

"I know him. He's from Saukenuk, and one of
the worst of the breed. I'll tell you who he is. He's
the father of that squaw with the half breed papoose
that Eandolph was so sweet on. And they've gone
together."

CHAPTER XIV
IN THE THICKET

A BRAHAM LINCOLN, in company with half a
-t*- dozen horsemen, rode across the flat prairies
lying between Dixon's ferry and Galena. It was a
day in June. The sun -hung high in a brassy sky.
The tall grass of the prairie swooned in the quiver
ing heat. There was no breath in the air. It clung
to the ground, close and stifling. Here and there in
the distance little clumps of trees, dark blue islands
in the sea of green, floated in the shimmer of the
plain. The horses, drooping their heads, plodded
listlessly. The riders stared silently at the ground
before them, exchanging gruff monosyllables now
and again.

Abraham Lincoln was no longer captain of
militia. He was a private in the Bangers, under
Captain Elisha Fry. The militia had disbanded in
disgrace. They had refused to go further in pursuit
of Black Hawk than the Wisconsin borders, clamor
ing to be returned home. Marching back to Ottawa,
they were dismissed. New companies were formed
out of such as wished to continue in the service, Lin
coln among them. Another was "William Munson,
frantic over the predicament of his sweetheart,
Rachel Hall. A third was William Hall, who joined

189

190 A Knight of the Wilderness

in the hope of being of service to his sisters. A
fourth was Isaac Frake, for reasons of his own.

They were riding on scout for troops bound to
Galena in answer to urgent calls for help, following
a report of a savage attack by Black Hawk's war
riors on the fort at Apple Eiver. The country was
in a ferment of fear. Small raiding parties of Sacs
were abroad, descending on isolated settlers at
night, killing and devastating. The army gathered
under General Atkinson at Ottawa, now the army
headquarters, was helpless, not knowing where to
strike — like the horses the rangers were riding
across the shimmering prairies ; it switched its mili
tary tail when it felt the sting of the Hawk, but
never got him.

Lincoln and Isaac Frake rode side by side, the
latter 's face purple from the heat of the day, his
mouth open from sheer exhaustion. From time to
time as he rode he stole a wary glance at Lincoln,
who was lost in revery. Presently Frake pulled a
black bottle from his shirt.

"Have a drink, Captain?" he said, riding closer
and proffering the bottle. He still used the title as
a form of flattery.

"No, thank you, Frake; I never touch it,"
Lincoln replied.

"I don't often," observed Frake, applying the
bottle to his lips. "I am so plumb worn down by this
heat that I need a little stimulant."

In the Thicket 191

"I didn't suppose it was very good in hot
weather," suggested Lincoln.

"It's the best time to take it; it drives the heat
out," Frake explained.

1 1 Oh ! " commented the other.

"I didn't know but that you were mad about that
Indian incident, and that that was why you wouldn't
take a drink with me," ventured Frake, eyeing
Lincoln shrewdly.

"No," Lincoln returned; "it would be the same
if President Jackson should ask me to take a drink.
I promised my precious mother only a few days
before she died that I would never use anything
intoxicating as a beverage, and I consider that
promise as binding on me to-day as it was the day
I made it."

He was aware of the other's sly look. He sur
mised the man had some purpose in reverting to the
affair, and sought to prevent it. Frake persisted.

"I hope you don't bear any ill will on that
account, Captain Lincoln," he said. "I hope there
won't be anything personal resulting from it be
tween us."

"That is hardly likely," Lincoln replied. "Of
course, we form our opinions of men more from
what they do than from what they say ; but I am not
one who bears malice."

He said it in a tone so even and dispassionate
that Frake studied his face for a moment out of the
edges of his eyes before venturing further. "You

192 A Knight of the Wilderness

see," he said, shortly, "I naturally hate the Indians,
having been near them a good deal, and this par
ticular Indian I happen to know altogether too
well."

"So I am informed," observed Lincoln, dryly.

"He's one of the worst in the whole tribe,"
resumed Frake, eyeing Lincoln narrowly after his
latest remark. "I have had dealings with him, and
he has a grudge against me. ' '

"Naturally," commented Lincoln, so innocently
that Frake, peeking at him, was satisfied that his
interjection was entirely perfunctory and uninten
tional, without the significance which it seemed to
bear.

"He'd cut your throat in a holy minute," Frake
went on, "and he's the most notorious liar in the
whole Sac tribe. He's a spiteful old villain."

"I'm rather glad to hear that, Frake," observed
Lincoln.

"Why? How so?"

"Oh, because he told me some things I would
not like to believe about any man, ' ' Lincoln returned
evenly, looking far across the prairie.

"The cuss!" growled Frake.

"I see you surmise that he was talking about
you," Lincoln remarked.

"Of course, I knew he would," returned Frake,
a little disconcerted for the moment, but neverthe
less pleased to have wormed this much out of the

In the Thicket 193

man at his side. "What did he tell you, now, just
for curiosity?"

"Oh, well, Frake," returned Lincoln, laughing;
"I guess I won't tell you. I don't want to see you
get mad on a hot day like this, and now that you
have told me that he is an enemy of yours and that
he is an awful liar, I will know how to take his
tales."

There was a possibility of a double meaning in
the reply which did not rest easily on Frake 's mind,
but there was something final about the other's
laughing manner of putting him off that he was
shrewd enough to profit by. He pursued the subject
no further, contenting himself with a shrewd inspec
tion of his companion's face, from the ingenuous
expression of which he was unable to infer whether
he had in any measure accomplished his purpose of
counteracting whatever of evil report the other
might have heard of him. In fact, he was consider
ably disturbed, and drew forth the black bottle
again.

"I don't feel well to-day, Captain Lincoln," he
said, fulsomely clinging to the title. "If you don't
mind I think I'll take another little pull."

Lincoln did not mind, and intimated as much by
a slight nod of the head. They rode in silence for a
space, Frake conning the other's face quizzically
from time to time.

"Funny where Kandolph has gone to, isn't it?"
he submitted presently.

194 A Knight of the Wilderness

"Why?" Lincoln's face was imperturbable, im
penetrable.

"Nobody seems to have heard from him since
that morning when he disappeared with the In
dian," observed Frake, a sly suggestion in his tone.

"Nobody but you seems to have expected to hear
from him, ' ' rejoined Lincoln, indifferently. Another
silence.

"Don't it seem strange to you for him to go off
with an Indian like that?" asked Frake, presently,
with crafty insinuation.

"If I considered it my affair sufficiently to ask
him about it, he no doubt could give me a reason
that would not make it seem strange, if it should
happen to appear so in the first place," returned
Lincoln. "Perhaps he was influenced by a desire
to protect the man's life against some of his old
neighbors."

"I happen to know that that old Indian was a
pretty good friend of his," retorted Frake, nettled
by the last fling.

"Was he?" asked Lincoln, lackadaisically. "I
should imagine they would be good friends before
they parted, at least," he added.

1 1 Do you know this man Randolph pretty well ? ' '
Frake went on, still maintaining his tone of innu
endo.

' ' Better than I know any man, ' ' Lincoln replied,
speaking half to himself.

"Is that so," returned Frake, with a tinge of

In the Thicket 195

sarcasm in his tone. "Why, I didn't know he had
been in Illinois long enough for that."

He intended to convey weighty meaning in his
tone. He intended to impute a dark and mysterious
past to Randolph. Lincoln heeded only the meaning
of his words.

"It don't always take a long time to know a
man, Frake," he replied. "I haven't seen you more
than once or twice, and still I think I know you
pretty well. Don't you?"

He looked frankly at Frake in saying it.

"I hope you do! I hope you do!" Frake made
answer, looking straight ahead. The quickness of
his reply was not immodesty. It was lack of finesse.
He perceived the innuendo in Lincoln's question,
and sought to nullify it by his reply. He overdid it,
and knew that he had overdone it when he saw the
quiet mirth in the depths of the other's eyes. It was
necessary, however, to proceed to the end of what
he had so obviously set afoot. He went on, conceal
ing his discomfiture.

"Do you know what I think?" he said, looking
Lincoln freely in the eye for the first time, with the
steady gaze of one who hopes to deceive.

"Well, Frake, perhaps I do, in a general way,"
drawled Lincoln.

"What do I think?" demanded the other, pounc
ing upon Lincoln with the question.

"You must be a little more precise, Frake,"
Lincoln replied.

196 A Knight of the Wilderness

Frake laughed heartily, making out that he had
achieved an advantage in repartee. He laughed a
little too heartily to produce any effect of mirth-
fulness.

"What do you think?" Lincoln interrupted him
in the midst of his laughter.

"Oh, you don't know, then? Well, I'll tell you,
seeing that you don't know" — he was making the
most he could of it — "I think that we are apt to run
across this friend of yours when we get up amongst
the Indians!" He said it with an air that should
have been overwhelming in implications.

Lincoln, looking afar off across the prairies,
made answer slowly. "I am rather inclined to think
so myself," he said.

Again there was warning conveyed to the man
that an end had been reached of safe discussion.
Again Frake, with discernment enough to perceive
it, fell into silence. When he broke it again it was to
say casually, with an air of easy familiarity :

"Do you think the reward will do any good?"

Lincoln, in a fit of abstraction, absently inquired
what reward he meant. He meant the reward of a
thousand dollars offered by Governor Eeynolds for
the safe return of the Hall girls, of course. He did
not omit to dissert upon the part he had played in
inducing Eeynolds to offer it. Lincoln ventured no
opinion. Whereupon Frake fell into an analysis of
the question, pointing out that if they were in the
hands of Mike Girty and the Pottowatomies the

In the Thicket 197

chances were pretty good, but that if Black Hawk
had them he would keep them as hostages, and might
even kill them in case the whites pressed him too
close. To all of which Lincoln paid no heed what
ever, so that Frake presently passed again into
silence and fell to reviewing the late conversation,
with many doubts and misgivings concerning it.

Crossing, late in the afternoon, through a strip
of timber that fringed a creek, they emerged upon a
beautiful rolling prairie a few miles in breadth,
beyond which lay Kellogg 's Grove, a large clump of
woods that was the site of a settlement. The sun
was low in the west as they approached it. The
woods were close and dense. The shadows of the
afternoon thickened in their depths. It was gloomy
and forbidding to those who knew that there were
Indians about, and that they drew closer to a lurking
foe with every step they took northward. One by
one those who were with Lincoln lagged behind. He
rode ahead, accompanied only by Frake. They came
within a hundred yards; fifty yards. Frake was
clearly nervous.

"Captain!" he said, "I've got to stop a minute.
My girth is loose. Don't wait for me; you go right
on. I'll catch up."

"Why don't you wait until you get into the
shade, where it is cooler," Lincoln suggested, with
a grim smile. Frake made no answer. Lincoln
entered the edge of the grove alone. His own heart
beat faster as, with keen eyes and listening ears, he

198 A Knight of the Wilderness

passed among the trees into the shadows. It is the
greatest courage that takes men where they fear
to go.

More slowly now, with cautious glances that
searched every tree-trunk, every thicket, he rode
into the midst of the forest. His companions strag
gled behind him, pale, with lips set. Last and palest
of them was Isaac Frake. Lincoln brought his horse
to a walk. With gun ready, he rode on. Each wav
ing branch, stirred by the afternoon breeze, caught
his eye and sent the blood coursing swiftly.

There was no sound save the soft fall of the
horses ' feet upon the mold ; the evening song of the
robin, the call of the cat-bird in the bushes. The red
sun streaked among the stems of the trees; the
leaves rustled aloft in the dying breeze. The peace
of nature was upon the world.

A path led through a little swale. The bushes
came close to it, creeping down from the rising
ground on either side. Midway through the swale,
Lincoln glanced at those behind, to make sure that
they were coming before he proceeded farther. His
eyes fell upon the face of Frake, some rods behind.
He was looking fixedly to the right of the path.
With his hand he was making signs, evidently in
reply or command. Lincoln, following his gaze,
saw a movement in the brush; he saw the form
of a small, slouching Indian for an instant; caught
sight of a weazened face in which the eyes were set
too close together and the thin nose was awry.

In the Thicket 199

Almost in the instant of his seeing the form it
was gone.

Shouting to his companions, he turned his horse
and dashed through the brush upon the rise of
ground which bordered the swale. The sight that
met his eyes there turned him sick. Five bodies lay
upon the ground, motionless, about the remains of a
camp fire. On all hands were signs of a struggle;
trampled ground, broken guns, torn pieces of
clothing, scattered camp equipment.

Lincoln, forgetting the Indian he had seen in the
sudden dread possessing him at sight of the slain
men, leaped from his horse and ran to the body that
was closest. The red sun shone red upon a raw and
bloody spot on the top of the head, where the victim
had been scalped. The man lay upon his face. Shud
dering, Lincoln turned him until he could look upon
the features. It was not he whom he dreaded it was.
From one to the other he went, hope and apprehen
sion contending in his heart. There was not one
whom he knew.

He finished his ghastly inspection, and looked
up. The van of the force bustled about him, in a
fever of excitement and alarm. Frake, loudly
exclaiming, made much ado. In his face there was
no sign of what had taken place, observed by Lin
coln. Lincoln, on the point of denouncing and ex
posing him, reconsidered, and held his peace. His
suspicions of the man were keen. What he planned
and plotted he could hardly surmise, but he should

200 A Knight of the Wilderness

have a better chance of discovery if the other were
unaware of his suspicion. Arguing thus with him
self, Lincoln held his tongue, even apparently per
mitting the soldiers to convince him that his alarm
had been false, and that he had seen no Indian. This
the men were sufficiently desirous of believing, for
their own peace of mind.

Anxious for the safety of the settlers, the expe
dition hastened to the cabins in the center of the
grove, stopping later to give the dead rough burial.
The buildings were deserted. There was no sign
that they had been attacked or molested by the sav
ages. The commander, conferring with his lieuten
ants, decided to remain there for the night, for
darkness was coming on, and travel at night was
hazardous.

Their supper was finished. The full moon, rising
in the sky, mellowed the dark shadows of the woods.
The men, lying on the ground in the pleasant even
ing, revived in spirits. One of them called for
Lincoln.

11 What's the matter with Abe to-night? "Why
don't he tell us a story?"

Lincoln, standing concealed in the shadow of a
house, made no response. His eyes were fixed on a
point in the woods, in the direction whence they had
come. Passing there among the trees, leaving the
camp, was a shadow ; the shadow of a man. Watch
ing him for a space, Lincoln stole from the obscurity

In the Thicket 201

where he stood through other shadows, and so to the
place where the retreating figure had disappeared.

He traced his way among the trees, slipping
from one to another, always in the shadow, avoiding
the branches that lay upon the ground, silent and
stealthy. From time to time he paused to listen.
Ahead of him, through the woods, he heard the low,
sharp crackling of twigs, the crushing of mold
beneath the foot of some one who passed. He fol
lowed the noise. At times he could see the figure of
the man he followed, stealing through the patches of
moonlight, from tree to tree. At times the sound of
the other's steps ceased, and he stopped, that his
approach might not be heard.

The man worked toward the edge of the grove,
toward a point to the right of the trail by which they
had come ; toward a point in the direction of which
the Indian had vanished. The glow of the moonlight
on the prairie beyond began to show between the
trunks of the trees. The smell of the grass reached
Lincoln's nostrils. The rasping of the insects in the
field was loud in his ears. He saw the shadow of the
man against the moon-glow. He heard him push
ing gently through some brush. The noise of the
footsteps ceased.

Now he who follows must travel without noise on
such an adventure. Lincoln's progress was slow.
Through such places as were not illuminated by the
moon, he felt his way, lest he tread on a branch and
be heard. Tediously he approached the place where

202 A Knight of the Wilderness

the man had disappeared. He was close to the edge
of the grove. He paused once more to listen. The
rasping of the insects on the prairie was louder. A
night-hawk cried at intervals overhead, leaving the
silence the more intense for his cries. Hushful
noises filled the night.

As he listened, out of the murmuring stillness
came a voice; a sharp, snarling, cracked voice; it
came from a clump of bushes close at his right hand.
In an instant it was smothered. Pausing a moment
longer to compose himself, Lincoln, with bated
breath, crept silently in the direction whence he had
heard it.

He crept along the edge of a clump of bushes.
He found himself on a slight bank bordering the bed
of a rivulet, now dry. Thickets enclosed it on both
sides, save for the space through which he had
approached. The bushes did not reach a sufficient
height to shut out the moonlight, which filled the tiny
hollow. He could see distinctly.

Sitting beneath the bank, with their backs toward
him, so close that he might have reached them with
his long arm, were Frake and an Indian. Lincoln
knew him by his stature, his slinking posture, his
dried-up face, as the native he had seen in the
bushes. The savage, whose face he could not see,
clutched in his hand a bottle, with which he made
feeble, drunken menace at his companion.

Frake paid no heed to the empty threat. One
hand grasped the Indian by the nape of the neck and

In the Thicket 203

shook his head from side to side persuasively. The
other was shut tight over the Indian's mouth.

"Shut up, you fool!" growled Frake, under his
breath. "You want to get us both in trouble?
They're apt to be looking for me any minute."

The Indian, brandishing the bottle more, mum
bled something between Frake 's fingers that Lincoln
could not hear.

"I tell you I have not got any more whiskey!"
Frake replied, still whispering. "I've given you all
I had now. I'll have to go without myself, curse
your skin! You get those girls for me and I'll give
you a barrel of whiskey and half the money for their
return. That'll be enough to keep you in firewater
till it rots a hole through your pesky hide. If you
hadn't been fool enough to let Black Hawk get hold
of them, you 'd have had it by this time."

Frake removed his hand from the Indian's
mouth.

"What could Half Ear do?" whined the red
skin. "Mike Girty was chief; Mike Girty afraid of
Black Hawk ; Mike Girty give white squaws to him.
Half Ear could not help it."

"You're no good, Half Ear!" returned the other,
contemptuously. "You always go back on me. You
let that red-headed paleface get away from you the
morning before you went to get the girls, and then
you let the girls get away from you ! See to it that
you do better this time, or, by the Lord, I '11
turn you over to White Beaver and have you strung

204 A Knight of the Wilderness

up. And, say, Half Ear ! ' ' added the white man, in
an afterthought; ''look out for the red-head. He
has left the army and is prowling around somewhere
looking for the girls, I reckon. He wants one of
them; the yellow-haired one. If you see him, you
know what to do. There's a half barrel in that for
you, too." ?

"Half Ear had no firewater that day," returned
the Indian, looking wistfully at the white. "Half
Ear cannot shoot straight when he no has whiskey!"

"I tell you, I have n't any more whiskey," Frake
snarled, interpreting the other's look.

Half Ear put the empty bottle unsteadily to his
lips and held it inverted for a long time, sucking the
tainted air into his mouth. Frake leered at him
while he did it.

"Now, then, Half Ear, I got to dig out of this,"
he said, when the Indian finally put the bottle down ;
he knew how little chance there was of getting his
attention before he put it down, empty though it
was. "You've got it all straight, have you? You're
to get the girls from Black Hawk any way you can.
You 're to bring them down here without saying a
word to anyone about it. Bight here!" he empha
sized. "Not to Dixon's, or Ottawa, or Galena, or
Fort Armstrong, or anywhere else, but right here!
When you are here, you are to cut down that little
beech sapling out there on the edge, at the mouth of
this dry creek" — he indicated the place with his
hand as Half Ear listlessly turned his head to look —

In the Thicket 205

"and I '11 happen along. I '11 be around here until
you show up — and then you '11 turn 'em over to me.
And there 's a barrel of whiskey in it for you.
You Ve got it all clear, have you! A barrel of
whiskey; and if you bring me a certain red-haired
scalp, there 's a barrel and a half! But you need n't
bring me any but the right one, 'cause I can tell;
you can't fool me on that hair! And if you say a
word to them about Raven Hair, I '11 kill you!
Hear?"

The Indian nodded and rolled his head drunk-
enly, assuring the other that he knew what was
expected of him.

"Half Ear will do it," he mumbled.

"Come, now, you'd better make yourself scarce,"
the white added. "It'd be a pretty mess if you got
caught here now!"

The. Indian staggered to his feet. The two made
their way slowly down the bed of the creek to the
edge of the grove. Lincoln could see them outlined
at last against the glow of the moon on the prairie.
Once at the edge, they separated and went in
opposite directions, keeping at the edge of the grove.

Lincoln waited until the sound of their soft steps
had died into stillness. Pondering many things, he
arose and returned to the camp.

CHAPTER XV

THE CAPTURE

JUNE! A blue sky, bending over a solitude,
unmarked of man; a glowing sun looking down
upon inviolate nature; the warmth of brimming
summer in the soft air ; lush grass ripening sweet on
the unbroken prairies ; shooting stars a-twinkling in
the breezes ; violets, coquetting with the sky, blue as
themselves, from the depths of the cool grass. Wild
strawberries reddening beside them. Larks flutter
ing to their nests with songs tinkling in their
throats; bobolinks whistling on the waving sun
flowers. It was surely June.

In the midst of it, a strip of woods fringing the
banks of a river ; fresh, soft verdure of new leaves,
awakened from dreams of life by the caresses of the
winds; the song of the robin and the thrush, the
scolding of the squirrel in the branches above; the
call of the cat-bird from the thicket, the twittering
of small warblers in the bushes; through the heart
of it the river, flowing softly between its wooded
banks ; teeming life in utter solitude.

Alone in the solitude a man was seated on a
fallen tree by the bank of the river. Behind him
stood a horse, his nose resting on his master's
shoulder. The face of the man was haggard, drawn,

206

The Capture 207

pinched by hunger, pale and anxious. His eyes —
deep brown eyes — were fixed abstractedly upon the
softly flowing water. Such was the setting and such
the scene on the banks of a river in Northern
Illinois on a day in June; a day shortly after that
when Abraham Lincoln rode by day and prowled
by night.

Mortimer Eandolph, half arousing himself from
his abstraction, raised his hand and stroked the nose
of the horse.

"Powhatan," he said, deliberating as he spoke,
"we're on the wrong track. We don't seem to be
very good at this trick of trailing. I don't think we
have been following Black Hawk's party at all. I
think we have been chasing rovimg bands of raiders
all this time. We don't want to see any raiders,
Powhatan. We want to see Black Hawk first of all ;
so I think we'll cut right across for Ouisconsin and
hunt him out."

The horse nuzzled closer into the hand that
stroked it, drooping and dozing listlessly. The man
fell into thoughtful mood again. For a long time
they remained silent and motionless, lending them
selves to the solitude. Presently the horse, with a
low whinny, raised his head quickly and looked
through the trees and across the prairie over which
they had just come from the south. His ears were
pricked and flicking nervously; he sniffed the air
eagerly, whinnying again. The man arose from the

208 A Knight of the Wilderness

fallen tree where he sat and followed the gaze of
the horse.

Debouching upon the prairie from a patch of
timber two miles away and coming toward them was
a band of horsemen. They were at such a distance
that Mortimer could not make out whether they
were whites or Indians. He studied them closely
for a space. They rode swiftly, apparently follow
ing and observing the trail over which he and Pow-
hatan had just come. Glancing quickly about in
reconnaissance of the topography, Mortimer drew
Powhatan beside him and mounted.

Turning the horse into the river, he directed him
down the current, making what haste he could
through the water, keeping close watch meanwhile
upon those who were riding up. A few rods below
where he entered the water, on the side of the
stream from which the strange body of men were
approaching, lay a long, low hill, extending about
two hundred yards along the bank. For part of that
distance it came quite close to the river, itself form
ing the bank. In some places there were tables or
shelves between the river and the hill.

Beaching the hill before he was able to determine
the identity of the horsemen, he decided to ride
through the water to the other end of it and observe
them thence. By the time he reached the point
they would be sufficiently close. If they proved to
be Indians on his trail, he could swing around the
further end of the hill when they passed the end he

The Capture 209

had quitted, and leave in the direction whence they
came, keeping the hill between himself and them.
By the time they should find his tracks leaving the
water, he would have acquired a long start. For the
rest, Powhatan was sufficient.

With this plan in mind, he passed behind the
ridge, which shut out from his view those who came
across the prairie. The stream narrowed abreast of
the hill. The water grew deeper, retarding their
progress. Mortimer could hear the rumble of the
horses ' feet afar off on the sod of the prairie. Pow
hatan picked his way between the deeper pools,
silent and alert. They gained the end of the hill.
The sound of hoofbeats ceased. Mortimer dis
mounted. Leaving Powhatan close under the corner
of the hill, where he could not be seen either from
the strip of woods or the crossing at its upper
end, he crept through the brush to the top, and
looked out.

The band had stopped. They were clustered
together at the edge of the woods, consulting among
themselves. Because of the intervening brush, he
could not yet determine whether they were Indians
or whites. He waited. The horsemen scattered,
forming a long line at the fringe of the timber,
extending far enough to envelop the hill. As they
came to their positions opposite him, he saw that
they were redskins. They had suspected his
strategy.

One of their number, a tall young brave directly

210 A Knight of the Wilderness

in front of him, raised his hand for a signal. The
line advanced slowly through the trees, with guns
and bows ready, their glances piercing the woods.
In the moment of their starting Mortimer recog
nized in the one who gave the signal and who came
most directly toward him, the young brave whom
he had seen on the top of Black Hawk's Watchtower
at Saukenuk the year before, whose fingers had
then been about Frake's throat, who had come with
the flag of truce, and whom he had thrown from his
horse at Old Man's Creek to save the life of Frake.
They were to meet now for the fourth time.

For a moment he hesitated, considering whether
to throw himself upon the generosity of the brave
whom he had served at Saukenuk, and relying upon
his gratitude. In the next moment the incident in
the fight at Old Man's Creek came before his mind,
and he decided against the risk. He must see Black
Hawk before he was seen by any Sacs. He would
trust all to Powhatan. He crept down the hill to
where he had left the horse.

Powhatan was not there.

' * Powhatan ! Powhatan ! " he called, softly.

From behind an elbow of the hill to his left came
an answering whinny, quickly smothered as though
a hand were placed over the animal's nostrils. With
silent step he hastened to the elbow and peered
around it through the bushes. On a little shelf
between the high ground and the water were a half
dozen Sacs, hideous in war paint. Two of them held

The Capture 211

Powhatan, who was struggling to throw them off.
One of the two had his hands on the horse's nose.
It was Half Ear.

Mortimer had no sooner seen the Indians than
their quick eyes detected him in the brush. They
had heard his call, and were alert. Before they
made a motion to fire upon him or take him, he
passed around the bushes and approached them,
making the sign of peace, extending the musket
before him on open, upturned palms. For the slight
chance of his own life he would have fought them
all; but more than his own life depended upon his
living.

''I come in peace," he said. "Is there one of
you who speaks English!"

Half Ear, letting go his hold on Powhatan for
an instant, leveled his musket and fired at Mortimer.
That was the English he had learned of late. At
the instant he pulled the trigger, Powhatan, rearing,
struck the musket out of aim. The ball knocked
Mortimer's hat from his head, doing him no hurt.

Powhatan, pawing and biting, broke fully away
from the one Indian who held him when Half Ear
let go to fire, and came to the side of his master.
The Indians, screaming their war cry, pressed
toward him. He was so close among them that they
could not fire without danger of hitting their friends.
They came with clubbed guns and hatchets and
knives, bristling about him. His offer of peace had

212 A Knight of the Wilderness

been received as their own truce had been on a time
which he too well remembered.

The one slim chance must be taken. All about
him was raging fury. The line of approaching sav
ages was already breaking out along the crest of
the hill. With one leap he was astride Powhatan's
back. Half Ear, green eyed with wrath and hatred,
was at the horse's head again, clutching at the bit
with a tenacity and courage new to him. Powhatan
pawed and reared; Half Ear clung. His name
might then have justly been Blue Wolf, as it was in
the beginning, before he knew the whites.

Mortimer, striking about him with his knife to
keep off his assailants, reserving his fire for the last
extremity, saw Half Ear clinging to Powhatan. He
pointed his gun at the Indian and pulled the trig
ger. A sluggish puff of smoke rose from the firing
pan; the powder sputtered and sizzled; there was a
low, muffled report in the chamber; but there was no
detonation. The powder was wet from the splash
ing of the horse through the river, and would not
explode.

Grasping the barrel of the rifle and swinging it
about his head, he aimed a blow at Half Ear, who
dodged it, letting go his grip on the horse. As he
let go, two Indians from the other side of the ani
mal grasped the bridle, and one who was behind the
rider, raising his musket, brought it down upon
Mortimer's head before he could recover his bal-

The Capture 213

ance from his own blow and defend himself in the
rear.

He felt something crash against his skull with a
blunt heaviness; flashes leaped before his eyes; a
deep, hot pain shot along his spine ; his legs turned
numb and could no longer grasp his horse ; the trees
reeled against the sky, and he fell senseless to the
ground.

Gradually consciousness crept back into his
brain, bringing with it exquisite suffering. He felt
a knot about his wrists ; the pain from it was soaked
up by his arms. Cords were about his body; his
whole weight was suspended in them. They cut his
flesh. He knew that he was bound to a tree.

He raised his aching head at heavy cost. By
degrees he discerned the crowd of savages about
him. They gesticulated and talked excitedly, fre
quently pointing at him. As he tried to fix them in
his gaze, the trees of the woods set up a dance and
the sound of the stream close by, which was only a
gentle murmur of water, roared through his ears.

Little by little his strength came back and accu
mulated. He was able to stand again, relieving the
cutting of the cords that bound him to the tree. As
he gained control of himself, he forced his face into
composure, banishing all trace of suffering from its
lines, and looked boldly at his captors. They seemed
to be quarreling violently among themselves. As
they quarreled, they shot hasty glances of hate in
his direction, growing more excited every moment.

214 A Knight of the Wilderness

The focus of the quarrel was between Half Ear
and the tall young brave. The young man seemed
fiercely to demand his immediate death. The other,
leering at him viciously from time to time, appeared
to be arguing against such a course. Mortimer
found no comfort in that circumstance. He believed
that at best it was only a question of the time and
circumstance of his destruction. He would have
preferred an instant fate to any that might be in
the devising of this distorted and degenerate savage.

He continued to stare boldly among them, meet
ing the gaze of such as glanced at him without
flinching, without sign of fear or supplication in his
face. Half Ear's eyes filled with hatred and fell
before his own when he turned them toward him.
Into the eyes of the others, through their animosity,
came a look of approbation for the cool manner in
which he faced them. He saw it, but built no hope
upon it, seeing how much stronger was the look of
vengeance.

For a long time they wrangled. In the end the
tall young warrior, with a grunt, threw his open
hands downward as a sign of acquiescence.
Grumbling, they unbound him from the tree, leaving
the thongs still upon his wrists. Driving him among
them with blows, they took up their way northward,
out of the woods and across the prairies. Half Ear,
leering at him viciously, mounted and rode
Powhatan.

CHAPTER XVI
THE WHITE MAN'S CHILD

RAVEN HAIR, haggard, with sunken cheek, sat
on the ground by the bank of a river swinging
Fire Fly on her knees, seeking to soothe him to sleep
with a song. The child looked up at her with a
pitiful, wistful appeal, seeming to wonder why this
warm, soft, tender thing that had always been with
him, that had fed him and sheltered him from his
helplessness, that was all he knew of life and living,
did not now stop the dull, dragging anguish which
reached its cruel fingers within his tiny body and
gripped without mercy.

It was the pain of hunger that clutched him. He
was starving. His emaciated frame was like a skele
ton in papyrus; his eyes had an unnatural luster;
the hollows beneath them were leaden; the skin of
his face was drawn and colorless; his thin neck
could no longer support his head; his hands were
tiny, shriveled claws, blue, with purple veins upon
them. In one of them he held to his mouth a root
which he had sucked until it was nothing but white
shreds. He still sucked ravenously, staring at his
mother with yearning eyes.

Signs of distress were all about. Old men and
squaws lay beneath the trees, weak and fainting

215

216 A Knight of the Wilderness

from hunger. Gaunt children staggered among
them, hollow-eyed. Papooses, their skin like taut
parchment over their bones, which threatened to
break through the envelope, lay silent in their
baskets. A horrid stillness brooded over all. No
voice was heard, save the low song of Raven Hair
crooning to her child. The silence was eloquent of
their stoic bravery to endure. Even Fire Ply,
greedily sucking the innutritions root, made no com
plaint, looking up at his mother with an expression
of patient faith that said if she let these pangs tear
at his bowels, they were a just part of life, and as
they should be.

Apart from them Black Hawk paced by the side
of the river. Sorrow bent his head. His eyes, full
of woe, were on the ground. Great grief was upon
him. He had led his people from the other side of
the Father of Waters that they might make corn in
their own land; now they were famishing. They
had been driven from place to place by the
implacable whites and had had no chance to plant,
so that there would be no crop for them; they had
brought but little food with them, and it was long
since gone ; it was not the season of much game, and
their hunters were away in war parties raiding the
white settlements; the Winnebagos, fearing the
wrath of the whites, had refused to help them; day
by day, without hope, they were slowly, patiently,
stoically starving, with relentless certainty.

Now they were camped on the banks of the Ouis-

The White Man's Child 217

consin, whither they had come from Lake Koshko-
nong. Their case was not so desperate when they
could make camp and stay in one place and glean
from the surrounding country. The women, going
into the forest and upon the prairies, found berries
and edible roots ; the boys shot squirrels and snared
fish in the river. But soon they would be relent
lessly driven forth again, and so, again; until the
time came when their trembling limbs were unable
to bear them farther; when the bullets of the pale
faces would finish the work of hunger, and the
people of the Hawk would be no more. This was
the past, the present, and the future, as the mind
of their chief contemplated them, walking the banks
of the Ouisconsin. This was what he had brought
on his people.

He had wished to return beyond the river when
the whites showed hostility, but his young men,
incensed by the attack made on their flag of truce
at Old Man's Creek, urged him to retaliation. Chief
among the young men who asked for vengeance was
the White Eagle, fiercest in war. Feather Heart,
his squaw and the daughter of the chief, lent bitter
voice to the plea. The Hawk, weak against their
insistence because of his own anger, had acquiesced.
The young men had fought back in their own way.
descending in small bands upon the unprotected
settlers and slaying them. They had aroused the
whites by their depredations and had brought the
arm of the nation more heavily upon his people.

218 A Knight of the Wilderness

Now his people were being hunted to their death by
the palefaces.

Feather Heart, at his side, sought to comfort
him. "Let the Sacs die, if they must," she said,
"but let them fight their oppressors. It is better
that they should be destroyed utterly, than that any
should live to tell the children of the Sacs that the
Sacs fled from the palefaces. The Hawk has done
well; his people are glad to die; the spirits of the
departed will praise him in their happy hunting
grounds."

The Hawk, laden with sorrow, made no answer
as he walked by the side of the stream.

Raven Hair, sitting on the ground, crooned in a
low voice to Fire Fly, her first born, as she swung
him on her knees.

' ' The son of the white man must die by the white
man's hand," she said, in the English tongue, which
she used when she spoke to her babe. "He who
would have been chief of the Sacs will never lift the
hunting spear; he will never dance the war dance
with the young men of his people; the maidens of
the Sacs and the Foxes will not tremble with love
for him when the time of the Dance of the Crane
draws near. For the land of the Sacs is no more
the land of the Sacs; the paleface has driven the
Sank from his hunting grounds and from the Silent
City. So let the child of the paleface die by the
white man's hand."

She half chanted what she said to the child.

The White Man's Child 219

There was no sorrow in her voice, and no anger;
there was resignation, fatalism, patience, but no
grief.

"You must not say that Fire Fly will die; Fire
Fly will not die. He will be a great chief and a
mighty hunter among his people. ' '

A soft and sympathetic voice fell upon her ears
as she finished; a gen-tie hand rested on her shoul
der. Sylvia Hall stood behind her, gazing over her
shoulder at the child with pity in her deep blue eyes.
Her face was careworn and thin from her lack of
wonted food, her figure had lost the delicate fullness
of its contour; but the look of courage upon her
countenance, of strength to bear her trials and her
sorrows, and the brave self-reliance of her carriage
made her beauty and her grace more glorious than
they had ever been, even on the night when she bade
farewell to Mortimer Randolph by the side of the
Sangamon River.

Rachel stood at her side. She was pitiful to look
upon. She had a hunted, haunted look. Her glance
was restless and eager; she was pursued by the
phantom of hope. There was fright, terror, despair
in her face. She clung bitterly to a love of life, but
she had not the spiritual courage to have faith in
the future. She left hope and courage and faith to
her sister, depending upon her for their sustaining
virtues. In depending, she seemed to demand the
other's moral support, pettishly, querulously, like
a spoiled child, and as though all the tribulations

220 A Knight of the Wilderness

that had come upon her had come through Sylvia,
with malice prepense. This was suggested both in
her appearance and in her bearing toward her
sister.

Eaven Hair neither raised her head nor turned
her face as she made answer. She had often heard
the soft voice and felt the gentle hand of the pale
face woman since the two prisoners had been turned
over to Black Hawk by Mike Girty and the Potto-
watomies. She knew who it was that spoke to her.

"His people are thy people, and thy people come
to slay him," she said, still half chanting. "Once
he could walk; now his head hangs on a thong and
his legs are as water. Once he laughed and called
to his mother ; now his voice is a moan in the night.
Blue death creeps to his heart by many trails. The
squaw of the whites is good. The squaw of the
whites is kind. Eaven Hair is grateful to the pale
face squaw. But Fire Fly must wither and fade in
the days of a summer; for the white man is cruel,
and the son of a white man cannot live on the roots
that the white man leaves for him to eat. ' '

For the first time there was a trace of anguish
in her voice as she finished, and a shadow of sorrow
passed through her eyes. Eachel, forgetting her
own tribulations, listened keenly, almost with excite
ment, to the mother, casting many glances at Sylvia.
She had held herself apart from the Indians and
had not learned of Eaven Hair and the white man's
child before.

• ' I1' ire Fly will not die. He will be a great chief and
a mighty hunter."

The White Man's Child 221

"Why don't you take the child back to the white
man ? ' ' she asked, half sneering. ' * His father would
not let him starve, would he?"

Eaven Hair arose and confronted her, clutching
her child close to her. Her stoic composure was
upon her again.

"The white man has gone his way and I have
gone mine," she made answer, proudly, though not
without a regret, which she could not exclude from
her tone.

Eachel was on the point of speaking further,
when Sylvia put her aside with a gesture of reproof,
and laid her hand tenderly on the frail shoulders
of the baby.

"I have corn that the Hawk has given me," she
said, shuddering as she felt the tiny skeleton, almost
without flesh to cover it. "I will make a gruel for
Fire Fly. I will feed him. He must not starve."

"We have no corn to spare," expostulated
Eachel, snatching indignantly at her sister's sleeve.

"Let the black-eyed one have no fear," said
Eaven Hair, turning a scornful glance upon Eachel.
"I shall not take her corn; for the Hawk has said
that the white squaws must not be hungry, though
we all starve, and that they must come to no harm,
so that the palefaces may see that the Hawk has a
full heart. I will not take your corn."

"The Hawk shall not know," said Sylvia, more
and more distressed at sight of the starving child
sucking the unwholesome and worthless root. "I

222 A Knight of the Wilderness

have plenty of corn. We will touch none of hers,"
indicating Rachel with a gesture of her brows.

"Whether the Hawk knows or knows not is all
one, ' ' answered the Indian woman. * ' His word has
gone forth, and his word is the truth. ' '

"Come! We will ask the chief," urged Sylvia.
"He will let you have some of my corn if I ask
him."

Eaven Hair pointed a thin hand toward Black
Hawk, pacing by the side of the stream. He was
alone now. Feather Heart had left him to his
sorrow.

' * Shall I go to him with a cry because one of his
children is dying, when they are all dying at his
feet?" she said, with passion. "What is the child
of Raven Hair, and who is Raven Hair, that she
should go to the chief with her anguish when the
anguish of his whole people tears his soul? I will
go with Fire Fly to the woods and find roots for
him. When the time comes for him to die he shall
die like a Sauk, and not like a paleface."

She walked away from the two sisters as she fin
ished, disdainful of fate. Sylvia, knowing the soul
of the woman, made no further attempt to persuade
her, but watched her go with a heart full of pity.
Rachel, observing the sadness in her face, flew into
a passion.

"Have you no shame, sister?" she cried, stamp
ing her foot petulantly. "Aren't you ashamed to
carry on so about that child? Didn't you hear her

The White Man's Child 223

say time and again that it was a white man's
child?"

"We are not to judge of that by our own laws,
Rachel," answered Sylvia, softly. "It is flesh and
blood, and we must not see it die of hunger."

"Yes, and whose flesh and blood! Whose flesh
and blood?" cried Rachel, bursting into tears in her
anger and vexation. "I hope you are satisfied now,
you stubborn fool ! I hope you will believe what he
is now! I suppose he is to be judged by our laws,
isn't he!"

The girl was beside herself with vexation. A
look of pain came into Sylvia's face. She turned
her head away to conceal it. Rachel, perceiving the
hurt she had given, in spite of her sister's attempts
to hide it, burst forth again more violently than
before.

"Didn't Mr. Frake give you warning what sort
of a man Randolph was!" she exclaimed; "didn't
your own brother see him with a squaw at Sauke-
nuk; did not he start for the Indians as soon as they
were in danger; can't you see that this is the squaw
with the half-breed papoose they told about; can't
you see why he came, and what he is ? It serves you
right ! It serves you right ! ' '

She stamped her foot and bit her lip. The white
face of Sylvia was more pallid, and more beautiful,
as she made answer.

"Rachel," she said, "I have listened in silence
to many things that you have said about Mr. Ran-

224 A Knight of the Wilderness

dolph. I have been patient with you and have tried
to overlook your wicked abuse of him. Now I will
hear no more of it. I forbid your mentioning his
name to me again. I charge you never to speak of
him, for good or evil. You have forfeited the right.
Until I see evil in him with my own eyes, I shall
believe in him, though the whole world cries evil
about him. Unless he destroys it in me, I shall have
faith in him until the last day."

There was rebuke in her tone, but no anger.
There was dignity and firmness in her countenance ;
but there was patient and pitying affection in the
look with which she regarded the passionate face of
the other. When she had finished she left Rachel
pouting, and passed among the miserable savages
to the little bark shelter that Black Hawk had caused
to be built for them apart from the Indians, for their
greater comfort and privacy. There they lived with
Light Foot, their custodian, chosen because she was
old and knew some words of English, learned from
Half Ear, her son, friend of the white man.

The sound of the words that Sylvia had spoken
that night by the banks of Sangamon River,
repeated half unwittingly now, awakened memories
that she tried to keep buried in the bottom of her
heart ; memories that floated in tears to her eyes as
she passed inside the shelter, filling her with sadness
and longing. The sound of them mocked her. She
had uttered them more to herself than her sister;
without realizing it, she had addressed them to a

The White Man's Child 225

hideous fear and doubt that was raised up within
her; a doubt vague, intangible, preposterous,
persistent.

Her faith had contended much with Rachel's
prejudice. This day she knew with bitter misery
that she had more than her sister's skepticism to
struggle against; for this day a white man's child
had looked up into her face out of the arms of its
Indian mother. Many words falling in the same
place wear a hole into the bravest soul, just as many
drops of water beat into the heart of a stone ; now
the tiny, pale hands of the babe tore into her heart.

If she could hear one word from his lips she
would be restored; if she could look into his eyes
and touch his hand again faith would indeed live to
the last day. Alone, beset as she was by danger and
distress, sick at heart, with nothing to sustain her
but memories, she lost courage for the fight. Know
ing it to be a sin, and with an anguish upon her that
held her transfixed and dry-eyed beneath the shelter
of bark, she doubted.

CHAPTER XVH
THE SHADOWS DEEPEN

QEATED on the ground in the shelter of bark,
^ alone with her perishing soul, there came to
Sylvia's ears from afar off a cry, the war cry of
the young men of the Sacs returning from a raid
among the whites. She had heard the cry many a
time in her captivity; she had heard it in the dead
of night ; she had heard it piercing the storm to the
accompaniment of thunder ; she had heard it scream
ing through the solitary woods in peaceful quiet of
noonday; never had it affected her as it did now.
There was portent in it, coming so shrilly into her
thoughts of Mortimer.

She started from her seat on the ground and
rose to her feet. She hurried from the shelter and
looked eagerly, tremulously, in the direction whence
it had come. A hope and a deadly fear were at her
heart.

The cry of the returning band had stirred the
listless Indians into a ghostlike activity. They arose
excitedly from where they lay upon the grass and
gazed in the direction whence the young men would
come, speculating with many gesticulations and
grimaces. Some of the more vigorous went forth to
meet them; for the return of the raiders meant

226

The Shadows Deepen 227

much to the starving old men and the women and
the gaunt children. It meant word of the dreaded
white man; it meant tales of victory to inspirit
them ; it meant strength for fighting ; it meant food ;
for the marauders brought what spoils they could
to their starving people.

Black Hawk stood in the midst of his waiting
people, silent and sad. Feather Heart crept toward
him, trembling with weakness as she walked. The
ghost of her beauty was left in her sunken cheeks
and hollow eyes. As she came near her father, her
step grew light, though the effort drew a tremor
through her frame.

" It is the White Eagle ! It is the White Eagle ! ' '
she cried, merrily. Yet only the ghost of joyousness
was in her voice.

Sylvia, dazed, incapable of thought, left the bark
shelter and hurried toward the group of Indians
gathering in the center of the camp. The cry came
again, nearer at hand. Excitement ran through the
waiting Sacs. She could see the forms of the
approaching Indians through the trees, half naked,
painted, hideous. They passed from the shelter of
the trees and came down the open space toward
their people, jubilant and shouting. Among them
they drove a prisoner. His hands were bound.
He was pale, haggard, anxious ; courageous, defiant,
magnificent. It was Mortimer !

As they came, she saw the beautiful eyes search
among the Indians until they found her. They

228 A Knight of the Wilderness

rested for an instant; a sign of gladness and good
cheer and warning flashed from them, and they left
her face. She believed that it was his necessity and
hers that made his glance pass so swiftly; but she
wished that it could have tarried another instant.
There was a destroying hunger in her heart.

The returning warriors stopped and circled
about their prisoner with cries and gestures. The
old men of the Sacs, and the boys who hunted, joined
them. The women and the children waited at a dis
tance. Only Feather Heart of the women went to
meet the young braves, walking by the side of her
father, the chief, greeting the Eagle with a look of
love and pride as he circled, chanting, about the
prisoner.

Sylvia, among the women, saw Eachel standing
beside her. Eachel looked dumbly into her face,
overpowered by the situation. Sylvia instinctively
reached out and took her hand, cold and stiff from
nervous tension. Her eyes clung to her lover; not
once did he turn his gaze toward her.

They dragged him about among them. His
hands were bound, and once he fell to the ground
heavily, unable to save himself. He rose to his feet
with calm dignity, ignoring his captors, and turned
his face toward Black Hawk. Between the two
there flashed a look of recognition. It left the face
of each at the same moment. The countenance of
the chief hardened into relentless condemnation.
The features of Mortimer became fixed in an expres-

The Shadows Deepen 229

sion of serene courage. The heart of Sylvia sank
at the sight.

The circling dance stopped. The sound of the
chant died upon the air. White Eagle and Half Ear
came before their chief. There were words in the
Sauk tongue which Sylvia could not understand.
Mortimer glanced once at Sylvia and smiled bravely.
The chief nodded his head. The savages turned to
Mortimer and dragged him to a tree. An excited
murmur went among the women. Eachel uttered a
sound that was half a shriek and half a whispered
prayer. Sylvia made no sound or motion. She
passed through the events that followed, swifter
than emotion could follow, dazed and stunned, like
one in a delirium.

A dozen hands bound him to the tree. A score
of hands brought dry brush and faggots, piling them
about him. Without a tremor, Mortimer looked
forth from his pyre. The Indians finished. A war
rior, kneeling, made ready to light the heap of brush
from the firing pan of a flintlock. There was a hush.
In the hush, the lips of the doomed man moved.

"Is there an Indian here who speaks the Eng
lish tongue?" he said, quietly, looking from face to
face. "I have a message for the Hawk from the
White Beaver."

The face of Half Ear filled with sinister light;
he made no response. Sylvia struggled to cry out ;
something clutched her throat ; something smothered

230 A Knight of the Wilderness

her soul; she could not speak. Rachel, clinging at
her side, screamed.

' ' Half Ear ! " she cried, pointing to him. * ' That
Indian can "

The hand of Light Foot pressed heavily over her
mouth; the arm of Light Foot was about her
shoulders.

"Let the white squaw hold her peace!" grunted
the Indian woman. ' ' The white man is a liar. Why
should Half Ear parley with a liar?"

For an instant the attention of the Indians was
diverted to Eachel. Mortimer understood, but held
his peace, having no hope in Half Ear. In another
instant the powder in the pan of the flintlock flashed.
A tiny blaze sprung up in the edge of the pyre. It
leaped and crackled. Smoke filled the heap of brush
and poured out of it. Through the smoke came a
smile of farewell; a smile that bade Sylvia be of
good cheer. She could make no response. She
could only stare dumbly into the smoke. Her soul
was dead within her. Her faith in him struggled
into life as he was about to die.

The flames gained headway, crackling louder and
louder. The savages, lifting their spears and
hatchets, danced about the burning pile in howling,
screaming frenzy. Black Hawk, standing motion
less, looked on stolidly. At his side was Feather
Heart, wavering slightly like a reed in the breeze,
her lips compressed and her hands clenched, gazing

The Shadows Deepen 231

constantly upon the White Eagle, who lead the
dance and the frenzy.

Sylvia, standing like a statue among the women,
staring with fixed eyes, saw Raven Hair appear like
a vision by the side of Feather Heart, with Fire Fly
in her arms.

"The child of the white man must see how the
white man dies ! ' ' she heard her say. In the moment
that she said it, the veil of smoke drifted, and the
face of Mortimer was once more revealed, calm,
serene, magnificent in fortitude. Staring dumbly,
Sylvia saw Eaven Hair thrust the child into the
arms of Feather Heart, saw her leap to the burning
pile and snatch the brands away with bare hands,
crying loudly in the Sauk tongue.

Half Ear, his face distorted with rage, rushed
upon her. She thrust him aside, crying out in the
Sauk tongue. The White Eagle — a score of young
men — swarmed upon her. She threw the fire brands
among them, calling loudly in her own tongue.

Feather Heart, leaving her father's side, glided
to White Eagle. She laid her hand on his arm. She
whispered in his ear. Sullenly, he held the braves
off.

Raven Hair, tearing frantically at the crackling
brush, stamping the fire with her feet, arrested the
blaze. Feather Heart, the babe on her arm, spoke
to her father, the chief, pleadingly. The White
Eagle stood apart, his arms folded, taciturn and
baleful. Half Ear, slinking behind the young men,

232 A Knight of the Wilderness

who stood in a wondering group, listened and
watched.

Eaven Hair drew herself up in front of the man
whom she had saved from the fire and confronted
the chief and the young men. Mortimer, blackened
by smoke, with distress and anguish contending with
his determination to endure without flinching, looked
on, marveling. He turned one searching glance
upon Sylvia.

All this Sylvia saw like one in a dream, not
understanding it, not trying to, not caring to under
stand; not daring to guess why this woman had
saved the life of that man.

There was rapid and vehement speech between
the Indian mother and the chief. It was in the Sauk
tongue, and Sylvia could not understand. Feather
Heart joined in it briefly from time to time, address
ing herself pleadingly to her father. The young
men muttered among themselves. In the midst of
their talk, Mortimer spoke.

"Eaven Hair," he said, "tell the Hawk I am not
afraid to die, but that I bear a message for him from
the White Beaver, which he should hear before he
kills me."

Eaven Hair turned to the chief and repeated to
him in Sauk what the paleface said. The Hawk
made answer.

"Let the white man say what he has to say,"
Eaven Hair said to Mortimer.

"Tell the great chief of the Sacs that the White

The Shadows Deepen 233

Beaver does not wish to destroy and punish the chil
dren of the Hawk," he said to her. "Tell him that
the Great Father does not wish to bring sorrow to
his children. He only wishes them to go beyond the
river, where they had promised to go. If they do
that there will be peace and love between the Indian
and the white man. Tell him that the Great Father
is kind, and will let the people of the Hawk go across
the Father of Waters if only the Hawk will send
back the young white women he has captive, and go
himself to see the Great Father in the Big Wigwam.
If he will do this, his people may go in safety beyond
the Mississippi."

An angry murmur arose among the Indians when
the woman made known to the chief what the white
man had said. Their resentment arose against the
bearer of the message, who had already aroused
their malice because of his rescue. The White
Eagle was bold in his displeasure.

Black Hawk, lost in thought for a space, held up
his hand and forbade the angry complainings of his
young men. Looking fully into Mortimer 's face, the
chief spoke long and mournfully in the Sauk tongue,
Eaven Hair repeating it in English from time to
time.

' ' The Hawk is sorry he came, ' ' said the woman,
translating. * ' The Hawk is sorry that he has made
the Great Father angry. It is not well for the red
man to anger the great chief of the palefaces; for
the red man is the child of the Great Father. He

234 A Knight of the Wilderness

came to make corn, believing that the palefaces
would let his people work in their fields through the
summer. But the whites have driven him from his
fields and his people are perishing. For himself, he
is old, and the night cometh upon him, but his people
are brave and strong, and the time is not come when
they should die. He is an old leaf, trembling on the
bough, but his people are like the green shoots of
spring. He will do as the White Beaver says. He
will take his people across the Father of "Waters.
He will send the paleface squaws back to the whites.
He will go to the Great Father in the Big Wigwam.
But how shall he know that the word of the paleface
is true? Many times has the paleface said one
thing, and done another. How shall he know? He
will first take his people across the river, and then
he will come to the Great Father for his blessing.
He will lead his starving women to the land of the
loways, and then he will give back the paleface
women to their own people. First the white man
must do what he says he will do, and then will the
Hawk fulfil his word."

Sylvia heard nothing of what was said. Her
eyes were fixed on the face of Mortimer. Her brain
was struck dead by a growing fear. Why had this
woman sought to save this man? What was there
between them that made her plead for him against
the tribe of relentless and hostile savages ? Was it
the true answer that Eachel, standing beside her,
was staring into her face ? No ! Until the last day

The Shadows Deepen 235

she would hold to her faith, unless the man himself
destroyed it. But why did this woman save the life
of this man "?

They were unbinding him from the tree. They
were releasing his wrists from the cords that bound
them. Their chief was talking to them, staying their
anger and disappointment.

' * The Black Hawk says that the white man shall
go back with the answer he has made," said Eaven
Hair, when the chief had finished. "The White
Eagle will go with him until his way shall be safe.
The Hawk will do that which he has said he will do
when the palefaces have done that which they have
said they will do."

He did not tell them there was no hope in such
an answer. They gave him his own horse to ride.
They gave him his gun and his knife. The White
Eagle, surly and grim, mounted and led the way.
Without another glance at Sylvia, Mortimer headed
his horse to the southward and passed from the
camp. Watching him as one whose soul is afar off,
Sylvia saw him turn his head slightly as he left and
make a signal to the woman with the papoose.
Watching, she saw the woman steal among the trees
and follow him with her babe in her arms.

With a low moan, she groped her way back to
the shelter of bark.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE RISK

WHEN Mortimer Randolph, liberated by Black
Hawk and sent back to the whites without
opportunity to see Sylvia, made a signal to Raven
Hair to follow, he had no other purpose than to
send a message of comfort and encouragement by
her to the captives. A plan to bring about their
escape, through the agency of the squaw, had grown
in his mind as he rode by the side of White Eagle.

It was vague and indefinite and hazardous; he
could not be sure when or how he could cooperate
in its execution, or that he could do so at all. He
concluded to discuss it with Raven Hair, if she
should follow, confiding in her friendship, and leave
it to her decision, subject to the approval of Sylvia.
Of her courage and ability to undertake any plan
that might be devised, he had little doubt.

They traveled slowly. Mortimer contrived to
delay their progress by making Powhatan feign a
lameness ; a trick he had taught the horse for diver
sion and display. They were hardly out of sight of
the camp when they heard the voice of the woman
calling after them through the woods.

White Eagle, hearing her, supposed that the
Hawk had sent her with a further message for the

236

The Risk 237

white man, she being the one who had acted as
interpreter. He stopped his horse and waited. She
came to them breathless, Fire Fly slung at her back.

"What does Eaven Hair want of us, that she
cries after us f " asked White Eagle, in the Sauk, as
the woman paused for breath. He was in an ill
humor, both because the white man had been spared
and that he had been sent with him, away from the
side of Feather Heart. "Has the Hawk thought of
something more that he would say to the White
Beaver?"

Eaven Hair, quick to see the advantage that his
conjecture gave her, replied that he had guessed her
errand. ' ' He thinks I have come from the Hawk to
speak more words with you for the White Beaver,'*
she explained, turning to Mortimer. "We may talk
without danger. I will tell him lies as we talk, that
he may think I parley with you for the chief. What
would the white man have of Eaven Hair 1 ' '

"You have done much for me, Eaven Hair," said
Mortimer. "You have braved your own people,
and saved my life. I cannot reward you now, but I
will not forget. ' '

"The white man has already rewarded Eaven
Hair," returned the woman. "He has saved her
from the blows of her husband before the women
of her people, and he has saved her husband from
loving another."

She sat on a fallen tree, being weary. Mortimer
dismounted from his horse and stood beside her.

238 A Knight of the Wilderness

The White Eagle, watching them closely, remained
on his horse.

"What do you say to the white man?" he
demanded, in the Indian tongue.

"That the Hawk would ask the White Beaver to
come to parley with him at the Devil's Cave, in the
Dalles of the Ouisconsin," replied Raven Hair,
adroitly.

"And what does the white man say?"

"He has not said," answered the woman.
"What will you have of Raven Hair?" she asked,
turning to Mortimer. "The Eagle is cheated."

"I would ask much of you," returned Mortimer.
"I would ask more than you need to do for me.
One of the white women that you have captive is
my own dear love" — it was necessary that the
woman should understand wholly — ' ' and I want you
to help her escape."

He watched for the effect of the suggestion upon
the woman. The eye of the Eagle was upon her, and
she made no sign.

"What does the white man answer?" asked the
Indian, looking keenly at her.

"He says that the White Beaver will not wish to
come so far," she answered; "but he has more to
say. Hold your peace until he has finished. I do
the work of the chief ? ' '

"How shall they escape?" she asked, turning to
Mortimer again.

"You must help," he answered, eagerly. "You

The Risk 239

must find a way. Can you get horses? Can you
get them out of camp! Can you ride with them!
Can you come to me! We can appoint a place.
White Eagle will leave me in the morning. I can
meet you in the morning."

It was beginning to seem possible to him. Raven
Hair thought deeply for a moment.

"What is the white man's answer!" asked the
White Eagle.

"He has not finished. He asks if the Hawk will
come without any of his braves to Koshkonong,
where the White Beaver has built a fort." She
turned to Mortimer. "Toward the rising sun, as
far as a horse can go from noon till night, is a great
lake," she said. "On the lake, toward the setting
sun, is a rock ; a high rock, as smooth as the face of
Fire Fly before hunger was upon him. Beneath the
rock, toward the lake, is a cave. There I will bring
the white women before the sun rises again, if they
will come with me. But the risk is great. It will be
evil for them if they are found. Are the white
women brave! They are well with our great chief,
and the risk is great. Eaven Hair will bring them,
if they will come, and they are not caught. ' '

"Tell them what you will do," Mortimer made
answer, beginning to falter at the risks involved.
* * Tell them the risk. Let them decide. If they stay
with the Hawk, I will come to their succor. If they
come, I will meet them. ' '

' ' How shall you know f ' '

240 A Knight of the Wilderness

"If they do not come, I shall know," he
answered.

"If they do not come before the sun is upright
above the rock, they will not come," said Raven
Hair, positively.

"Raven Hair has spoken long," complained the
White Eagle, frowning impatient. "Can Raven
Hair hold parley like a chief? Is there no answer
to the message I ' '

"The white man says that the Hawk must send
a young man to the White Beaver to tell him
whether he will come to Koshkonong," she
answered. "If the Hawk will not come to Koshko
nong, the Beaver will go to the cave in the Dalles,
bringing all his men. The Hawk must send a young
man with the answer."

"Has Raven Hair done! Has the white man
done ? ' ' asked the White Eagle, angrily. He did not
like this parley with the enemy of his people. His
blood was stirred against the palefaces; he would
speak with them only with the rifle.

"We have done," she made answer, rising.
"Until the sun is upright above the rock you may
wait," she added, to Mortimer.

"I cannot give you reward now, Raven Hair,"
said he, gratefully. "But when Raven Hair comes
with the white women she shall go with us to the
land of the whites, where Fire Fly shall grow fat."

"Raven Hair will return to her people," replied
the Indian woman, solemnly. "The bones of Fire

The Risk 241

Fly shall rest among the dead of the Sacs. She will

bring the white women if they will come; but she

will return to her own people. ' '

"Is the white man done?" grunted the young

brave.

* ' He bids you come, ' ' said Raven Hair. ' ' Go. ' '
Randolph mounted Powhatan and rode with the

Eagle through the grey shadows of evening, leaving

Raven Hair to await the darkness before she went

back to the camp.

CHAPTER XIX
THE WHITE MAN'S FRIEND

NIGHT had fallen upon the camp of the starving
Sacs. Night noises of nature were in the air.
The rustling river whispered to its banks. Crickets
rasped in the grass. Frogs held sonorous converse
along the low margins of the river. The owl hooted
among the trees. The night-hawk called through
the forest. The timber wolf howled out of the
distance.

Among the sleeping Indians there was a hush,
save for a low, grating sound that Light Foot made
as she ground the corn that White Eagle had
brought her, and the sound of her voice raised in
bitter complaint. She was kneeling beside a small
fire that blazed in the bark shelter — the only fire in
the camp.

By the side of Light Foot as she ground her corn
sat Sylvia, composed once more. The storm had left
her soul — left it a crushed and twisted wreck, but
left it her own. She had fought, and she had lost.
In her defeat she was growing strong again. Hope
was dead, but dread had passed. She knew the
worst. There was nothing now that life could bring
her which she could not meet. The regret, the bit
terness, she could conquer in time. For the present

242

The White Man's Friend 243

she was herself — broken, shattered, miserable, but
herself.

Eachel lay sleeping fitfully on the ground, her
head in Sylvia's lap. Tears clung to her dark
lashes, for she wept in her sleep over the grief of
her sister. With an honest purpose she had sought
to destroy the faith of Sylvia in this man ; now that
the faith was dead she sorrowed. While her soul
was not great enough to grasp the immensity of the
tragedy, the magnitude of the event that had come
filled her with a sense of oppression. The one whose
grief it was had comforted her out of her greater
strength, so that she slept at last, fitfully, weeping
as she slept.

"Woe to Light Foot, mother of an evil son,"
droned the old Indian woman as she knelt by the
side of the fire, pounding corn. "Shame and dis
honor are hers ; for the White Eagle, her son, is an
enemy to her people. He has stirred the palefaces
to wrath; but Half Ear, his brother, is a friend of
the whites, and has lived in peace among them. Now
we are starving; the White Eagle makes us starve.
He makes the whites seek our lives; but Half Ear
was their friend. Unhappy is the mother of an evil
son. ' '

There was the sound of a footstep in the grass
close to the shelter. Some one approached, cau
tiously. Light Foot, hearing it, arose and went into
the darkness. Sylvia paid little heed. What was to

244 A Knight of the Wilderness

happen would happen. She had lost hope. She was
prepared for all the misfortune life can hold.

Light Foot, walking softly through the grass,
saw some one standing beneath the trees. She
stopped and challenged in a low voice. A voice
made answer — the voice of Eaven Hair.

''What does the squaw of the white man want,
that she comes through the night to the lodge of
Light Foot?" demanded the old woman, gruffly.

"I would speak with the white women," made
answer Eaven Hair.

The murmur of their voices in the still night
reached the shelter ; Sylvia might have heard if she
had listened. She would not have known what they
said, for they spoke in the tongue of the Sacs. She
would only have known who it was that came
through the night to the lodge of her keeper.

1 'What would Eaven Hair say, that she comes in
the darkness?" asked Light Foot, jealously.

Eaven Hair hesitated. "I have corn for them,"
she made venture.

"Must corn be brought in the night?" persisted
Light Foot.

The other was silent.

"What would you say to the white women?"
asked Light Foot again, more insistently.

"Light Foot is kind, Light Foot is good," said
Eaven Hair, coaxingly. "Light Foot will have pity
for the women of the palefaces. One of their race
has come and been sent away. He could have no

The White Man's Friend 245

word with them. He bade me bear it to them. Light
Foot is kind. She will not deny it to them. ' '

The eyes of the old woman closed to slits. She
looked at the other craftily, suspiciously.

"Must you come in the night to bear it to them?"
she asked, harping on the point. "Come in the
morning. They are tired. They sleep. The
morning will do."

"The white man bade me speak with them
to-night," returned Raven Hair, too anxiously.
"They will be waiting; they will be glad for what
I shall tell them."

"Who is the white man that you so quickly run
with messages for him?" asked the other, abruptly,
in a tone full of innuendo. Her attitude was almost
threatening.

"He is the friend of the poor Indian woman,"
replied Eaven Hair, proudly. "He has saved her
from the hand of her husband before her people.
He kept the love of her husband from another ! ' '

She spoke half defiantly, to deny the implication
in the other's tone. Light Foot tossed her head
shrewdly, without making response. In the wisdom
of her years, she guessed near the truth. She was a
woman ; she had known jealousy.

"Light Foot will let me go to them," resumed
Eaven Hair, after a moment. "It grows late, and
Fire Fly must rest soon."

' ' Eaven Hair will tell Light Foot what she would

246 A Knight of the Wilderness

say to the white women, ' ' suggested the other, slyly.
"Light Foot will bear them the message."

"Raven Hair must tell them!" exclaimed the
younger woman. ' l The word is for them. ' '

"Ha! It is not for the ears of Light Foot?"
cried she. ' ' Then it is not for the ears of the white
women. ' '

Before Raven Hair could make rejoinder, a
shadow came from behind a tree and Half Ear stood
between them.

"I have heard," he said. "I know. I am the
white man's friend. They would have slain him, but
I saved his life. Let Raven Hair speak with them
to-night. ' '

Raven Hair turned a look of deep suspicion upon
him. He saw and answered it.

"Half Ear tells the truth," he said, solemnly.
"Half Ear is no more as he was in the days that
have gone. Half Ear would help. He is the white
man's friend. What did the white man say? Did
he tell his white sisters to come to him through the
night, that he might take them to their people? Is
that what the white man would have said? That
have I prepared to do. He has said it to me. Our
horses wait in the grove. He has said it to me, and
I have made ready to do his bidding. ' '

Raven Hair, thrown off her guard, revealed with
a look that he had guessed the truth.

"He said nothing to me of Half Ear," she
observed, full of suspicion.

The White Man's Friend 247

1 * How could he have told you what Half Ear was
going to do, when the brother of Half Ear
listened?" explained the Indian. "Does not the
brother of Half Ear know Half Ear's name in the
English tongue? Look! We lose time. We must
hasten. It is better that Raven Hair should go her
way, lest some see her talk with the women of the
whites and think evil of it. It is better that Raven
Hair should go among the old women and let them
see her, that they may think no evil. I will take the
pale face squaws on the horses that are waiting.
To-morrow we shall be far away. And to-morrow
the Hawk starts for the Father of Waters in flight.
He dare not pursue us, lest he fall into the hands
of the whites."

Raven Hair, full of doubt, was at a loss.

"Come," said Half Ear, addressing himself to
her, ' ' Raven Hair must not be seen here talking. She
must go among the old women and speak not of the
white man. I am the white man's friend; I will do
his will."

Taking her by the arm, he led her into the dark
ness toward the place where the women were. So
far his plans were working well. It was his first
return to the main band since his meeting with Frake
at Kellogg's Grove, where he had loitered after the
departure of the band that had billed the men that
Lincoln found. Half Ear had come away full of
schemes to abduct the white women, made bold by

248 A Knight of the Wilderness

the reward offered by the government for their re
turn, and by the inducement Frake had added.

Eeturning, he had fallen in with another band of
Sacs and joined them, for his own safety. Luck
had placed Randolph in his hands. He had begged
for the life of the paleface at the time, thinking he
would gain favor with Frake if the man were tor
tured and killed in the presence of the white woman.
He did not entirely foresee in what way that would
benefit him, but his native shrewdness suggested
that there would be profit in it, in the end.

The escape of his victim disconcerted him at first,
but it indirectly brought him advantage now that, by
accident, he had stumbled upon his mother and
Raven Hair and intercepted Randolph's message.
The incident gave him an opportunity that he was
shrewd enough to seize. He would be able to get
them out of camp more easily. In the circumstances
Raven Hair would not reveal how they had escaped
when their absence was discovered in the morning;
the women themselves could be more easily induced
to accompany him, and the white man Randolph
would be thrown off the track.

He had no misgivings that the Indians would re
cover their captives if he once got them away, for
he had spoken the truth when he said that Black
Hawk was going to set out for the Mississippi in the
morning, and would not risk stopping to hunt for
them. There would be no danger of meeting any
roving Sacs, for they were all with their chief.

The White Man's Friend 249

»

In the morning they would be thirty miles to the
southward in the white man's country. There his
only danger would be in encountering Randolph ; for
he could make satisfactory explanations to other
white men, with the corroboration of the women
themselves. Wherefor he was in high spirits when
he returned to his mother, who awaited him where
he had left her.

"What will her people say of Light Foot when
the women are not in her lodge in the morning?"
moaned the old woman, as he returned, fearful of
herself. * ' The face of the Hawk will harden against
her; his hand will be raised in wrath; she will be
without honor among her own people."

1 1 The hope of the Sauk is with the paleface now, ' '
made answer her son, hearing her fears. "I will
take the women to their own people. I shall be made
rich. The whites will be my friends, and the friends
of my mother, she who helped to free the paleface
squaws from the Hawk. When the war is done.
Half Ear will bring his mother to live with the pale
faces; she shall dwell among them in honor. The
Sacs are nothing; the hope of the Sauk is in the
whites. ' '

With such craft and device he argued, to set her
mind at rest. She being a mother, though of an evil
son, believed him and was reassured. Together they
went to the shelter.

The fire had burned to a red and dying coal.
Sylvia still sat near it on the ground. Rachel,

250 A Knight of the Wilderness

awakened by her troubled dreams, leaned, trembling
and shivering against her. Light Foot spoke to
them.

"Half Ear is the friend of the whites," she said.
"He has come to take the paleface squaws back to
their people. The white man who was here awaits
them in the forest. He will take you to safety. The
horses stand ready. Make haste, before the moon
comes."

Eachel, with a little scream, grasped her sister.
"No! No! No! I dare not," she cried.

"Black Hawk leaves to-morrow for the Father
of Waters," said Half Ear, urgently. "He cannot
take the paleface women with him. He will kill them
before he goes."

Eachei, in an extremity of fear, fell sobbing on
her sister's neck. "Oh, what shall we do I What
shall we do?" she moaned.

"We will go with the Indian," made answer
Sylvia, calmly, rising and lifting Bachel to her feet.
"We are ready."

She confronted the lowering and sinister Indian,
prepared for what fate might have next in store for
her. She did not entirely believe that he intended
taking them to Mortimer. If he did, she could meet
the situation. If he did not, she would not be in
worse case than she was with these starving and
fugitive Indians. She need have no dread of the
gravest thing a defenseless woman has to fear from
a man. That the Indians never gave white women

The White Man's Friend 251

cause to apprehend. So she would go with him with
out anxiety — having lost hope.

Half Ear, seeing that she would follow, snatched
the bag of corn which his starving mother had been
grinding and left the shelter silently, not stopping
to bid her farewell. Sylvia and Rachel followed,
disappearing into the night.

CHAPTER XT
THE CAVE IN THE ROCK

IT is not pleasant to ride by night through a lonely
and unknown forest at best, and terror stalks
by day in the vicinity of hostile Indians. It is pe
culiarly unpleasant when one's companion on the
ride is an Indian whose inherent savagery has been
aroused to ferocity by acts personally witnessed.
Nor does it make it better when he is known to have
recently been deprived of the satisfaction of pro
ducing one's death by slow torture and fire.

Mortimer had sufficient confidence in Black
Hawk to feel that he would not connive at his being
killed and scalped by one of his young men on a
journey assumed under his direction and auspices.
He could not be equally secure in White Eagle's
fidelity to the trust reposed in him by the Hawk.
He had seen the young man fired upon when he bore
a flag of truce to the Americans. He himself had
thrown him from his horse in flight, and deprived
him of revenge. He believed that White Eagle was
one of the leaders in the belligerent faction of the
Sacs. He considered it reasonable to suppose that
scruple would not deter him from any act of violence
to the white race. He had personal and recent ex
perience to prove that his present companion

252

The Cave in the Rock 253

might kill him without compunction. He realized
that all to withhold him from the act was a sense of
duty to the chief. He had no means of ascertaining
how strongly that sense would hold the Eagle ; there
fore he was constantly on his guard as he rode with
the Indians through the dark.

One circumstance aroused his caution. White
Eagle, instead of bearing to the south-eastward, in
which direction lay Dixon's ferry, or to the east
ward, toward Koshkonong, where soldiers might be
expected to be encountered, turned in a southerly
direction toward a point unlikely to be occupied by
troops. This led him to doubt the sincerity of the
brave, and caused him added uneasiness. He feared
that he was being led into an ambuscade.

However, as the night grew on and the moon
rose without his companions doing anything further
to arouse suspicion, he concluded that it was prob
ably a strategy on the part of the Indian to delay
his reaching General Atkinson with the message. He
had deduced from the opposition which the White
Eagle appeared to offer against the sending of the
message by the Hawk, and by his sullen deportment
during the last interview with Eaven Hair, which
the Indian supposed to be part of the parley, that
the young brave was not in sympathy with the nego
tiations he was intrusted with, and would be glad if
the reply of his chief never came to the ears of the
American general.

Nevertheless, Mortimer abated nothing of his

254 A Knight of the Wilderness

watchfulness. Tired as he was, and occupied as was
his mind with the prospective escape of Sylvia, he
constantly kept his attention upon the Indian by his
side, and upon the road ahead, in so far as the dark
ness permitted, to prevent a possible surprise.

As the night wore on the other's taciturnity
seemed to disappear. He could see by the light of
the moon that the sulky cast of the Indian's counten
ance was passing, and the sullen hatred that had
been in his eyes was slowly submerged in a more
genial light. In course of time White Eagle grunted
a few fragments of English words that he had picked
up. They were disjunctive and not strikingly ap
propriate to any topic of conversation which they
might have pursued had they been provided with a
vehicle for communicating their thoughts, but in the
circumstances they were highly eloquent.

By an elaborately intricate and largely unintelli
gible system of signs, too, White Eagle, gradually
conveyed to the mind of Mortimer that he was not
insensible to the favor that the white man had done
him in the episode at Saukenuk the year before.
Mortimer believed that he detected a desire on the
part of the Indian to impress upon him the idea that
Feather Heart was especially grateful for that act ;
and that out of respect for her, at least, the Eagle
would not do the paleface damage, but was rather
inclined to be friendly with him, when such a rela
tionship could exist between them without sacrifice
of principle.

The Cave in the Rock 255

Mortimer was not unaware that the savages fre
quently resorted to just such devices on the eve of
their most nefarious and brutal acts, but he was dis
posed to make the most of the necessity he was
under of accepting as honest the other's demonstra
tions and to receive them with an appearance of
truth and faith. He did not cease to be wary, but he
felt less and less apprehensive of this savage; his
principal fear now being that he might be followed
by others of the young men not so amicably disposed
toward him.

It was nearly two in the morning, as he judged by
the position of the moon, when White Eagle, stop
ping abruptly in the bottom of a little rocky defile
through which a brook coursed, dismounted, and
made a sign for him to do the same. He did so, half
expecting and fully prepared for a lively denoue
ment.

The Eagle held out his right hand. "Hand
shake," he said, laboriously. "Me friend.'*

Nothing in the night had so aroused Mortimer's
foreboding. He took the extended hand with a
forced readiness, smiling, as pleasantly as he could.

1 1 Hand shake ! Me friend too ! ' ' having been re
peated, the Eagle seemed gratified, and threw him
self down on the ground without further ado.

"Sleep," he grunted, as he stretched his splendid
limbs upon the grass.

Mortimer, whispering Powhatan to stand close,
lay down more deliberately. He did not approve of

256 A Knight of the Wilderness

the nature of the place White Eagle had selected
for a camp. It was deep and dark, with rocky banks
on either side of the brook, which made a double
bend through the ravine, so that little of its length
could be seen. The spot was entirely enclosed. It
was an ideal place for treachery. Nevertheless, he
could not make objection without running the risk
of incurring the displeasure of the Indian ; a result
that would aggravate matters if the case was as he
feared, and which certainly would not improve the
situation if his anxiety was groundless. He accepted
the circumstances, therefor, only resolving not to
permit himself to fall asleep, but to watch guardedly
against any surprise.

The night was warm and pleasant. The moon,
which had arisen in the middle of the evening, was
now well down toward the west, as he could see by
observing its light on the eastern rim of the defile.
The noises of the night were hushed. Only the purl
ing of the brook, the deep breathing of the sleeping
Indian and the restful sounds made by the browsing
horses disturbed the silence, which they served
rather to intensify than destroy.

Mortimer was weary, in body and brain. He
had traveled far under great worries. He had eaten
little. His rest for many nights had been meager
and superficial, compelled as he was to be constantly
watchful. The blow on the head which he had suf
fered in the encounter with the Indians when he was
captured still affected him. The physical and mental

The Cave in the Rock 257

strain of his experience as an intended victim of
torture had exhausted his strength. His distress of
mind for Sylvia, the bitterness of coming so close to
her without being able either to assist her or speak
with her and his anxiety concerning her possible at
tempt to escape had depleted his nerve force. In
spite of his necessity and his determination to re
main awake, the soporific hush about him slowly
mastered his consciousness, and he drowsed into
profound slumber.

He was awakened by the neighing of his horse
It was daylight. The first fact that struck upon his
attention, with the force of a blow, was that the
White Eagle was gone. Neither was the Indian's
horse to be seen. He was on his feet, in instant
alarm, fully awake.

His gun was at his feet. He snatched it up,
searching the rocky inclines about him for sight of
a foe. A motion in the bushes at the eastern rim
of the gulch caught his eye. He fixed his attention
there, just in time to see the head of Half Ear van
ishing from sight.

His first impulse was to follow, directly and im
mediately. Before he responded to it, he considered
the possibility that the Indian's appearance and dis
appearance at that point were a decoy to lead him
into ambush. He resolved to pass down the bed of
the stream a short distance, climb the bank and
circle wide through more open country in order to

258 A Knight of the Wilderness

approach the ambush, if there were one from the
safer side.

With this intention he saddled Powhatan, who
stood nervously expectant at his elbow, leaped upon
his back, and sent him down the creek as fast as the
rough character of the footing permitted. The
course of the stream was disastrous to his strategy.
Beyond the bend which enclosed the spot where he
had been it turned to the west, abruptly, away from
the direction in which he wished to circle, and so
continued for a distance.

Nevertheless, he rode down the creek for an
eighth of a mile before he turned to mount the bank.
Approaching the side of the ravine, he found that
the walls were so rocky and precipitous and so
tangled with brush that egress there was impossible.
He had already gone far in the wrong direction in his
flanking movement. Instead of proceeding further
down stream, he turned and retraced his steps, keep
ing close watch for an opportunity to get out of the
defile, at the same time scrutinizing the thickets for
Indians.

He had nearly reached the place where he had
slept before he found a point where he could ride
out. He was at the top of the acclivity in a moment.
A thin stnp of woods fringed the ravine. Beyond
it was open prairie. He struck out for it at right
angles. Once clear of the trees, he rode to a safe
distance in the prairie and turned his horse toward
the place where he had seen Half Ear.

The Cave in the Rock 259

No Indian was to be seen. He scanned wood and
prairie. He followed the edge of the strip of wood
until he had gone beyond the point where Half Ear
had been. He was about to turn in there, cautiously,
when he saw the tracks of a horse in the wet grass.
They led away from the ravine, and were fresh.

Without hesitation he followed them. They were
easily seen, for the grass reeked with dew, and the
feet of the horse had made a vivid wake across the
prairie.

At a distance of a quarter mile was another
stretch of timber, wider and more dense, which
skirted a larger stream into which the little creek,
making a broad sweep, emptied at a distance below,
where the two belts of wood came together. Thither
the tracks led, and thither Mortimer followed, urg
ing Powhatan to speed.

Entering the edge of the woods, he came where
a number of horses had stood ; he did not stop to see
how many. Here the tracks he followed mingled
with the others. He knew that here the Indians had
joined companions and had fled thence with the
other horses. He could see their foot prints, not so
plainly as on the open prairie in the wet grass, but
readily enough to be able to follow at a good pace.
There appeared to be three or four in the party.

Instantly he set out in pursuit. He knew that
he could overtake any Indian pony the Sacs had with
them, and he was in a mood to stop the annoyance
he had experienced from this particular Indian.

260 A Knight of the Wilderness

Sacs in general he sympathized with, but this speci
fic representative of the tribe he was willing to con
sider an exception.

He had not gone a hundred yards before the
thought of his rendezvous with the escaping sisters
burst into his mind. It was already daylight; the
sun was above the horizon. It was late July, and it
could not lack seven hours until midday, which was
the last hour set between him and Raven Hair. He
had ridden slowly southward for nearly eight hours.
The lake and the rock and the cave, and Sylvia, lay
a half day's ride to the eastward from his point of
departure. It all came to him in a flash, and he
pulled up short.

Stopping for a moment to make mental calcula
tion of the distance and direction of the place set for
meeting Sylvia, he turned Powhatan and started off
on a brisk lope, bearing a little east of northeast,
making allowance in his course for the slow rate of
travel southward during the night.

He rode hard and pitilessly through the morning.
His heart sank beneath many misgivings, and he
charged himself bitterly with faithlessness and blun
dering negligence. There were streams to cross and
woods to penetrate; the grass on the prairies was
long and whipped about his horse's feet, retarding
him. He steered by the sun as best he could, keeping
as nearly on the course he had laid as the topography
of the country permitted.

With every bound of his tired horse the quest

The Cave in the Rock 261

seemed more nearly hopeless. To reach the point
he aimed at in the time that remained would have
been difficult enough, if he had known the way there ;
but the necessity of covering the distance and find
ing the smooth rock before midday, traveling blind
and by guess as he was, appalled and dismayed him.
Had he been strong; had his bruised head not
throbbed with each motion of the horse over the un
even ground, his native fortitude and self-reliance
would have held him in courage. But he was weak
and sick and momentarily grew more dizzy and faint.

He had ridden, as he guessed, between six and
seven hours ; as nearly as he could judge by the posi
tion of the sun it was eleven o'clock; there was no
sign of a lake before him. He was on the point of
concluding he had miscalculated and was not headed
toward the lake he sought, and was about to change
his course, half frantic with the thought that he was
lost, when he observed a high, sloping ridge ahead
of him as he came out of a patch of timber. It was
prairie land, promising a view of the country about,
and he pressed toward it, with a flicker of reviving
hope.

His heart leaped with joy when he came to the
top and could look beyond. Blue, serene, peaceful,
beautiful, with stately forests skirting its gently
curving shores, stretching away into the broad dis
tance was a lake. Shouting in his gladness, he urged
Powhatan into a run and went toward it.

As he was crossing a depression in the interven-

262 A Knight of the Wilderness

ing prairie, eager and unobservant, Powhatan called
to him with an admonitory neigh. Mortimer cast his
eyes about. Beneath the very feet of his horse,
extending to a breadth before and behind, were
tracks made by many horses, fresh in the grass, lead
ing to the westward. He stopped. For a moment he
was at a loss to account for them, believing that they
had been made by Indians. In the next moment he
knew that it must be the path of the army on Black
Hawk's trail, and he hurried on toward the lake. His
relief in the conviction that friends were in the coun
try added to his happiness in discovering the lake.
Succor was at hand. It only remained to find the
rock and Sylvia.

As he thought of her once more, his hopes fell.
He had not found her yet. What if this were not the
lake? What if the rock he looked for were many
miles away I — for the lake was large and the location
of the smooth rock upon it was indefinite in the de
scription that had been given him. And what if she
should not be there ?

Agitated by conflicting hope and fear, he
reached the woods that fringed the banks. He had
come upon its western edge, but near to the southern
extremity. The rock might be far to the northward.
He rode to the water 's edge to see whether he might
not be able to get a glimpse of it from there. His
view was cut off by a wooded point extending far
into the lake, half a mile above him. Beyond it there
seemed to be a deep, wide bight, for the next point

The Cave in the Eock 263

he could see was at a great distance. He would go
beyond the point and make a survey from there.

Powhatan was growing tired. Randolph did not
urge him as he had done, but rode more leisure
ly, walking and trotting. In the easier pace he
was able to collect and calm his thoughts, and steady
his whirling brain. He kept close to the water, for
the rock he sought, as he understood it, was near the
lake. The woods were free of underbrush, but were
so densely grown that the view was not extensive.
As he neared the point he kept further in from the
water, to save the distance of the indentation.

As he was in the midst of the woods, penetrating
to the other side of the base of the point, he caught
a glimpse of something between the trees that made
his heart stop. Ahead of him, by the edge of the
water, was a great, gray, symmetrical rock, smoothed
by the wind and weather of many a century since
its fellows had fallen into decay and dust. Shouting
in his gladness, he hurried toward it.

As he came near he called loudly the name of
Sylvia. There was no answer. Yet it was possible
that there was more than one such rock. It was
possible that there were many.

He was at the edge of the huge boulder. He dis
mounted, not willing to trust his haste to the feet of
a horse. He ran around toward the side that faced
the lake. He did not call her name now. He had
not the courage. He would hope while hope re
mained.

264 A Knight of the Wilderness

He came to the front of it. In the middle was a
great cave, hollowed out by the waves when the
shores were further inland. He crept toward it.
He had not the fortitude to run. He was at the
opening. The light of day flooded the hollow
throughout; for it was shallow. He looked within.
It was vacant. There was not the least sign of
humanity.

He looked over his shoulder. The sun was up
right above the rock.

CHAPTER XXI
THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL

FOB an hour he waited. He found berries in the
woods, and clams in the shallow water, to stay
his hunger and to bridge the time. Powhatan, ex
hausted, lay down to rest, after Mortimer had re
moved saddle and bridle. At the end of an hour he
replaced them and mounted. He retraced his steps
until he came to the track of the army. He turned
Powhatan 's head in the direction they had gone,
and urged him on.

Heavily, wearily, he followed. There was noth
ing now but to remain on Black Hawk's trail until
— until that happened which would happen. He
knew that there was slight hope left in negotiations,
after the answer the old chief had given. The hope
that remained depended upon his overtaking the
army, moving on Black Hawk's trail, and preventing
an attack by it. It would effect little to see General
Atkinson, even if he proved willing to accede to the
Hawk's terms, were these troops permitted to go
forward and attack the Sacs meanwhile.

In two hours he saw the rear of the column, pass
ing slowly across a prairie. He continued at an
even pace until he overtook the rear guard.

They were troops under General Henry's com-

265

266 A Knight of the Wilderness

mand; that much he learned in the first greetings.
The soldiers paid little heed to him, except to re
mark that he had ridden hard, believing him to be an
express from Fort Atkinson, on Lake Koshkonong,
where they had taken their departure.

Without waiting to exchange talk with them, he
rode forward until he found General Henry, who was
consulting with Colonel Dodge, in command of the
Ouisconsin troops that had joined the command.

''You are not going to attack1?" he said, eagerly,
without preliminary, as he rode up to the command
ing officer. His hope in negotiation was slight, but
he would not abandon it without a struggle.

"I certainly am, as soon as I can find anything
to attack," answered General Henry, vigorously.

"But negotiations are under way," pursued Mor
timer.

"Who are you?" demanded the general, bluffly.
He did not intend rudeness. He only asked for in
formation. Mortimer identified himself, overlook
ing the form of the request.

"Oh, you are the man, are you," observed Gen
eral Henry. "Have you seen the Hawk, then!"

"I have, and he has practically agreed to the
terms," replied Mortimer, stretching a point. "We
should not attack him."

"If he has agreed, where are the girls?" de
manded General Henry pertinently, in his brusque
manner.

Mortimer, somewhat disconcerted, explained the

The Beginning of the Trail 267

details of his conference, not yet mentioning the pos
sible escape of the Hall sisters.

"That won't do !" exclaimed General Henry, with
emphasis. "He 's got to come to the scratch. Be
sides," he went on, "General Atkinson has with
drawn his offer. It is too late now. We have orders
to punish him. He should have answered before."

Mortimer made the plea that he had not had
opportunity.

"Can't help that!" ejaculated the other. "Seems
to me you are pretty anxious about the hide of the
old fellow?" he went on, sarcastically.

"I am more interested in the safety of his host
ages, if they still remain with him," returned Mor
timer, ignoring the tone and manner of the man.

"What do you mean, man?" demanded General
Henry, catching the "if."

Mortimer made answer at length, telling such
parts of the story as he considered of consequence
to General Henry, making two points. One was that
if the young women still remained with the Hawk,
an attack by the whites, after the Indian's offer to
return them conditionally, might be fatal to them.
The second was that if they were fugitives from the
savages, seeking shelter with their friends, they
should be sought for.

To the first General Henry returned shortly that
they would have to take their chances in case of at
tack. For the consideration of the second he sent

268 A Knight of the Wilderness

for William Hall and William Munson, who
presently appeared.

The wrath of those two at what they termed the
meddling of Randolph in the affairs of the sisters
was full and bitter. Only Mortimer's equanimity
and the interposition of the commanding officer
averted an open physical quarrel. Mortimer was
surprised at the angry antagonism of the two, but
gave it little thought, having weightier matters on
his mind.

The band was halted to discuss what had best be
done. Hall and Munson, arguing from their knowl
edge of women in general and Eachel Hall in par
ticular, maintained that they would not venture upon
an attempt to escape, and were still with Black
Hawk. They urged immediate pursuit.

In the end it was decided that a dozen rangers
should be despatched to make a search for the girls,
while the others continued on the trail of the chief,
now made plain for them by the report of Mortimer.
Mortimer himself, thinking only of Sylvia, decided
to go with the main body, believing it more probable
that the sisters were still with Black Hawk.

They rode hard, Mortimer keeping up with them,
despite his own fatigue and the exhaustion of his
horse. As he rode he learned of such few events as
had happened since he left to seek the Indian chief.
General Atkinson, not hearing from the message to
Black Hawk, did not long delay in pressing the pur
suit. The militia and a body of regulars marched

The Beginning of the Trail 269

northward along the Rock River to Lake Koshko-
nong, in search of the Sacs, who skillfully eluded
them. At Watertown, in southern Wisconsin, a large
body of the militia was sent home because of a
failure in provisions, the rest taking up the trail
which they discovered leading toward the Ouisconsin
river. Among those thus dismissed from service was
Abraham Lincoln.

Late in the afternoon the soldiers came to the site
of the camp on the bank of the Ouisconsin. All about
were the signs of hasty departure. Fires where the
Indians had cooked the crumbs of corn brought them
by the raiders were scarcely cold. The ashes were
fresh and undisturbed. A few utensils lay about,
abandoned, being of no further use to the Indians,
who had nothing to cook in them. There was a fresh
grave by the banks of the river, which the soldiers,
in brutal spite, uncovered as they hurried through
the place.

They rode, before they stopped to eat and rest,
until it was so dark that they were in danger of miss
ing the trail. Mortimer had difficulty in continuing
on with them. He was weak from exhaustion and hun
ger, and a feeling of sickness crept over him from
time to time. His head reeled and a cold tingling
numbness passed over his skin, like wind squalls
across the surface of water. The fatigue of Pow-
hatan, too, was pitiable and reacted upon the condi
tion of his master, bringing it still lower.

The soldiers gave him a bit of corn cake, some

270 A Knight of the Wilderness

jerked venison, and a tin of weak coffee. It was all
they had that night. Their provisions were running
low, and they could not tell when more would be sent
them. Famishing as he was, he could scarcely eat
the little they gave him. He put what he could not
eat into his pocket, and lay down upon the ground
to sleep, depressed and dizzy.

As soon as the dusk of morning showed them the
way, the troops were in motion again, not stopping
to heat water for coffee. The trail was plain before
them. Marks of horses' hoofs and prints of naked
feet were in the path that led northward along the
river. On either side the grass was crushed and
trampled.

Mortimer, still dizzy and with the little cold skin
squalls sweeping over his body, rode in the forefront.
Powhatan had recuperated somewhat, and was able
to maintain the pace without distress to himself or
rider. The soldiers, revived in spirit by signs of
their quarry, shouted and laughed as they rode,
flinging coarse jests back and forth and towsling
each other in rough play.

Mortimer, in no mood to witness such a display
of humor, rode a little ahead. The sun, above the
horizon, struck among the boles of the trees, light
ing the grass or sending long shadows across it. The
birds twittered busily in the day's work. Mists
steamed up from marshes across the river. The loud,
rude noises of the boisterous troops jangled harshly
on the serene peace of the morning.

The Beginning of the Trail 271

As he went forward, miserable in body and mind,
Mortimer kept close watch ahead, hoping against all
reason that he might yet avert a tragedy if he should
be first to see Black Hawk's band. Riding among
the trees, his eye caught sight of the tuft of an In
dian's scalp lock at the foot of an oak, and a dusky
form laying half concealed behind it. He glanced
over his shoulder to make sure that he was not ven
turing too far from the troops, and went cautiously
forward.

The Indian did not stir. He came within a dozen
paces, stopped, and called to him. There was no re
sponse. He went to the foot of the tree, keeping
close watch on both sides as he proceeded. He passed
around the trunk. The Indian lay still, face down
ward. He spoke to him again. There was no an
swer of voice or muscle. He dismounted from his
horse and touched the prostrate form. It was cold.
The Indian was dead.

It was the body of an old brave, horribly emaci
ated. The scalp lock was a thin wisp of white hair,
tinged with yellow from excess of age. He turned
the face upward gently with his hand. The agony
of the death he had died was in the open, sight
less eyes, the twisted lips, the sunken cheeks.

A squad of soldiers, seeing him kneeling behind
the tree, hastened up.

"What you found!" demanded one gruffly.

He looked up. It was William Hall.

"Do you know what this means, men?" said

272 A Knight of the Wilderness

Mortimer, rising, appalled by the spectacle. "This
savage has starved to death 1 ' '

"That's a good way for 'em to die; saves pow
der," laughed William Hall. "Here! Wait till I
get his scalp. ' *

Hall leaped from his horse and hurried to the
side of the dead body, drawing his knife as he went.

"For the love of God, man!" cried Mortimer,
aghast. "You will not mutilate the dead?"

* ' You go to hell, Eandolph ! ' ' roared Hall, flaring
into anger. "Is it any of your business? You're
altogether too friendly with these Indians for your
own good ! I know you ! These boys know all about
you ! I've told 'em ; and they won't put up with none
of your tricks. You'd better tend to your own af
fairs!"

He was down on his knees at the side of the dead
Indian. His knife reached for the naked, withered
crown. Mortimer, with a cry of wrath and horror,
grappled with him. Hall threw him off with ease,
so great was his assailant's weakness.

' * Now see here ! " he bellowed, taking him by the
throat and raising the knife threateningly, "you
leave me alone, or, by God, I'll make you!"

Three or four of the soldiers, who had dis
mounted, grasped Mortimer's arms and held him
helpless.

"Let him alone," they growled to Mortimer,
with ugly looks. "He owes it to 'em."

Mortimer, rendered powerless to interfere phy-

The Beginning of the Trail 273

sically and knowing the futility of words, held his
peace. Hall glanced fiercely at him and returned
to the body. He made a few clumsy gashes of his
knife through the thin flesh against the skull, twisted
his hand in the thin white hair, and jerked. The
scalp came away.

"You mind your business after this, Randolph,
or you'll be sorry," growled William Hall, close to
his face.

The others, muttering warnings, released their
hold. Mortimer mounted Powhatan and rode on.
He was not angered against them. He would not
quarrel with them. He had other work to do. He
was only filled with horror, and marvel that such a
one as this man should be brother to Sylvia Hall.

All through the weary, wicked day they rode, and
into another day. From time to time those in front
broke into clamorous and exultant shouts, and those
behind presently passed bodies of Indians, scalped
and bleeding, who had fallen famished by the way
side. Children there were, with shrunken frames,
who had lain moaning until the soldiers came, when
they moaned no more; old women whose grey hair
fell over their haggard, staring faces. Mortimer did
not know that one of these was Light Foot, mother
of Half Ear. If he had known, he would have felt a
deeper pity.

The trail was ghastly with sights of death and
despair. To the horror of it in Mortimer's mind was
added the dread of what might befall Sylvia, fleeing

274 A Knight of the Wilderness

with the starving, fugitive Indians; Sylvia, weak,
soft, tender, gentle, beautiful. His head reeled; his
skin was parched and hot.

It was the afternoon of the second day. The sun
in its declining course passed behind a dark and
murky cloud. Lightning flashed across the heavens ;
thunder rolled through the woods. Raindrops pat
tered on the leaves and dashed little spurts of dust
from the dry ground. The storm broke in wild, fan
tastic fury. The bodies of dead and dying Indians,
lying along the trail, spattered and drenched, showed
in the lurid lightning. Mortimer lifting his face to
the lowering sky, made a silent prayer for the safety
of his beloved. If the Indians died, how should the
white woman escape!

The swiftly moving column came to the edge of
a prairie that opened to the river. Beyond it rose
the heights of the Ouisconsin. Beyond the heights
was low, swampy ground where the river shallowed
and could be crossed. It was this crossing which the
Hawk strove to reach before his relentless pursuers.

Looking beyond the prairie Mortimer saw, in the
daylight that remained, the last of the Indians strag
gling and struggling up the heights, dragging their
weary, bloodless limbs across the steep places. He
could have cried out in his pity for them — and his
distress for his beloved.

The soldiers saw also. Sounding the army cry,
they put spurs to their horses and urged them for
ward with voice and lash. Living excitement ran

The Beginning of the Trail 275

through the command. Men came hurrying out of
the woods where the column still passed and rushed
across the plain. As they hastened forward the rain
ceased, — and Mortimer's fears for Sylvia rose
higher. What would Black Hawk do with his pris
oners when the soldiers attacked?

A shot rang out from the thicket on the crest of
the ridge. The Indians had made a stand. The
soldiers in advance paused. Their comrades came
up. The men dismounted. The line of battle formed
It swept up the hill, the men firing as they ran from
tree to tree. The Indians made answer, fifty against
four hundred. It was the White Eagle with the
young men of the tribe, covering the retreat of Black
Hawk across the Ouisconsin.

Up the ridge, from tree to tree, crept the four
hundred. The flash of rifle fire gleamed through the
gathering dusk, along the top of the ridge, and over
its slopes. Bullets whined through the air; the
grunts and moans of the stricken filled the evening.
The fifty stood well. They became forty, and thirty,
and still stood their ground.

Mortimer, thinking only to succor his beloved,
went in the forefront, musket in arm He did not
load and fire. The pity of it all was upon him. He
only went that he might save Sylvia in her extremity.

1 'Charge."

General Henry broke through the line, sword in
hand.

276 A Knight of the Wilderness

"Charge!" Colonel Dodge, further along the
ridge, echoed the order.

The soldiers dashed up the slope. The Indians
held their ground. The soldiers closed with them,
musket butt to hatchet. The Eagle, watching the
willow fringed islands in the river, cried out a sig
nal. The Indians, such as were left, turned and fled
down the hill. The Hawk was safe.

The soldiers followed the fleeing savages into the
ravine beyond the ridge, where the gathering dark
ness obscured the enemy. Night was upon them,
and they halted, glorying in their victory over a
famished foe.

Mortimer, sick at heart, weary and oppressed,
sought out Powhatan from among the horses the
soldiers had left when they went into the fight, cared
for him with loving hand, and lay to rest close by
him, having no other comfort in his heavy misgivings
for the safety of Sylvia.

CHAPTER XXII
THE END OF THE TRAIL,

IN the midst of the night there came a cry to the
ears of the slumbering soldiers ; a long, low, son
orous cry, intoned from the top of the hill beyond.
Mortimer, hearing it in his sleep, awakened with a
start. It fitted his dreams. He had dreamed of
Sylvia, done to death by the savages, calling to him.
He listened. Not hearing it again, he thought it was
from his dreams, and turned to go to sleep once
more.

Turning, a hot, tingling flush went through him.
His head whirled. He put his hand to his brow to
steady it. It was dry and hot and throbbing. The
trees above him and the shadow of the hill assumed
a vastness, and overpowering immensity that was de
lirium. His weakened limbs shivered and trembled.
Fever was upon him. His heart sank beneath the
knowledge. Not for himself, but for her whom he
would save. He set his determination against it,
composing himself to sleep by sheer force of will.

Into his ears there came again the cry. Chills
coursed through him at the sound. He tried to rise.
He could not. The effort only sent the cold more
swiftly through his weakened frame. He lay still,
listening. It came again. He knew it to be the call

277

278 A Knight of the Wilderness

of an Indian. He knew that the Hawk wished to
parley. He waited to hear an answer, intense, ex
cited. He was like one at a play. He awaited the
event as one who watched it, having no part. He no
longer strove to rise, to answer the call, to bring
about a parley, to put an end to the horror of tlie
chase, to save the life of his beloved. Like one hav
ing no volition, he waited for some one else to do it,
taking no part himself. Waiting, he passed into
troubled slumber, full of fantastic dreams, and so
slept fitfully till morning.

In the morning he was better, but the fever still
fought for possession of him. He said nothing of
it to his companions, who had been surly to him since
his encounter with William Hall. He ate what he
could of the food they grudgingly offered him, scanty
and poor at best, and waited for the next step in the
drama, unable to think into the future, glad only to
rest on the grass for the present.

General Henry, going to the top of the heights in
the morning, gazed across the river, cursing and
stamping his feet. The Hawk had flown from his
island in the night. His soldiers had little food left.
They could not pursue until General Atkinson came
with the regulars and more provisions. He sent an
express to report the fight and to hasten forward the
others. Having done that, he abandoned himself to
impatience, and waited. In a day General Atkinson
arrived, with commissary. The troops moved at
once in the direction which the Hawk had taken.

The End of the Trail 279

Mortimer, slowly burning, half dazed, scarcely
knowing what he did, or why, went with them,
mounted on Powhatan, who had been refreshed and
strengthened by his rest. He rode in the van, his
head afloat and his spirits sunken. His companions,
looking into his burning brown eyes and seeing the
look on his face, pointed at him, touching their fore
heads and chuckling. He did not know, nor would
he have cared.

The way was easy to trace. The bodies of In
dians, fallen famished by the side of the path,
aroused no further interest now than that they
blazed the trail. They found horses that had suc
cumbed to starvation and exhaustion and been par
tially eaten by their masters, ere they hurried for
ward to escape the vengeance that pursued. There
was no pity for them. There was only exultation
and rejoicing among the following soldiers.

Mortimer, riding far ahead on a morning, half
delirious, saw a squaw seated by the side of the trail,
her head hanging on her sunken breast, her bare
and bleeding limbs, little more than bundles of bone,
folded beneath her. In her lap was a tiny bundle,
wrapped in a blanket. Something about the woman
recalled Mortimer's wandering faculties, flashed
memory and rationality into his brain. He looked
more closely at her. It was Raven Hair.

He spurred his horse. She did not raise her head
as he drew up beside her and dismounted.

280 A Knight of the Wilderness

"Let the white man finish his work!" she said,
in even voice.

' ' Eaven Hair ! " he cried, laying his hand gently
on her shoulder, "You, too?"

She looked up at him. Her eyes were sunken,
her face a shadow. Yet a light passed across it as
she recognized him. "Let the white man finish his
work," she said again, in the same even voice.
"Raven Hair would have crossed the river to lay
her Fire Fly far from the hand of the white man who
has slain him, but her time has come. Let the white
man finish his work."

Mortimer lifted the corner of the blanket that
covered the bundle. Beneath was a baby dead, hor
rible.

"God!" he muttered, closing his eyes to the sight.

Eaven Hair, replacing the blanket which he had
let fall, was silent.

"Gome! Quick! Take my horse," said Mor
timer, full of compassion, remembering what he
owed to the woman. "I will bury the child. Leave
it with me. I shall not let them harm it."

"Fire Fly died in the arms of Eaven Hair; in
the arms of his mother he shall rest when she dies,"
returned the woman doggedly.

The sound of horses came closer in the trail be
hind. Without thinking what he did, Mortimer
raised the woman, pitiably light, in his arms and
placed her on the horse, before she could resist.

The End of the Trail 281

"He will return to me," he said. "I will find
the horse at the river."

"The white man is good; Fire Fly will sleep in
the land of the loways, among his ancient people,"
said the woman, who thought only of saving her
dead child from sacrilege.

A word from his master, and Powhatan, with a
whinny of unwillingness, bounded down the trail
just as Hall and Munson appeared behind with some
of the soldiers.

"There 's the cursed squaw now!" cried Hall to
Munson, and the two beat their horses into run, fir
ing a shot after the retreating Indian.

Mortimer would not have understood what they
meant had he attended to their words; and he did
not listen. For as he saw Powhatan, breaking into a
run under the urging of his rider, distance the pur
suers and disappear through the trees, he remem
bered that he had not learned of the woman the one
thing he would have given his soul to know, — the fate
of Sylvia. Recalling that, he burst forth into a laugh
that sent the blood chilling through the veins of
those who heard it.

The soldiers, looking askance at him as he stag
gered along, laughing and muttering to himself,
passed him rapidly. General Atkinson, coming upon
him and recognizing him through the spectral
shadow of his delirium, called an orderly to him.

"Find that man an animal and get the surgeon
for him," he said. "He is sick. Get him a pack

282 A Knight of the Wilderness

animal, anything, ' ' added the general, seeing the per
plexity in the soldier's face and interpreting it.

The orderly, saluting, went to Mortimer and took
him by the arm, with some apprehension. Mortimer
looked vacantly at him, and laughed.

"I guess I am only sick, my fellow," he faltered.
"Have you seen Sylvia anywhere?"

The soldier, kind in his rough way, stayed by him
until the surgeon came. He gave him what he could
to soothe him and relieve him of his fever.

" Seems to have been through a hard strain
which has broken him up pretty well," he reported
to General Atkinson. "I should judge the man was
half starved. It's just a touch of the fever. He 'd
be all right in a jiffy with rest and proper care.
Shame he can't be taken somewhere. Nothing for
it but for him to stay with the army, though. ' '

There were a number of pack animals to carry
provisions, some of which had been divested of their
loads. The orderly, with the kindness of a brother,
put his saddle on one of these and made Mortimer
ride it, himself mounting the bare back of his own
horse. Thus he traveled through the woods on Black
Hawk's trail, alone with his fantasies among a thou
sand men, whispering of Sylvia by day and calling
her name as he slept by night.

How long they travelled he did not know. To
him it was an eternity. One morning as he rode he
was aroused from his delirium by the sound of shout
ing and the firing of guns. An excitement ran

The End of the Trail 283

through the column which tingled in his blood, mak
ing life real. He awakened to a half possession of
his faculties. He was only partially aware of
where he was, and how he had come there, but be
neath his sensations, partaking at once of reality
and fancy, was a consciousness of why he was there.
Thoughts of Sylvia mingled with his vagrant hallu
cinations about her. These thoughts he grasped and
clung to, for the final moment was come, and the end
of the trail was at hand.

Riding toward the confusion and sound of battle,
which swelled constantly in his ears, ignoring the
soldiers and ignored of them, he came upon the scene
of struggle. Black Hawk's warriors were making a
last stand. On one hand was the Mississippi River,
their goal. On the other hand were the soldiers.
It was at the mouth of the Bad Axe River. A line
of low wooded hills extended parallel to the Missis
sippi, distant half a mile. Between the hills and the
river was low ground, overgrown with thick and
tangled grass, reeds and scrub willows. In the
stream were islands, covered with willows. An hour
sooner and they would have made their escape. But
the hour was not theirs, and now the famished and
desperate band made a last stand, hoping that their
women might find time to cross.

Of the three hundred braves with Black Hawk in
the beginning, not a hundred were left. Those who
survived were weak and sick from starvation.
The militia and the regulars, strong and inspirited

284 A Knight of the Wilderness

at sight of their quarry, rushed upon the braves con
fronting them along the hill. Mortimer dismounted
and standing on a shoulder of the hill beyond the line
of the fighting, saw the army sweep down. He saw
their ranks melt and scatter beneath the bullets and
bayonets of the assailants. He saw those remaining
of the line swarm down into the tall grass of the low
land and disappear. Beyond, at the margin of the
river, he saw the women and the children and the
old men leaping into the water or standing stolidly
to meet their fate. Weak as he was, he cried aloud
for mercy toward them and went forward into the
tall grass.

His knees trembled beneath him. He reeled as
he walked, leading his horse, unaware of its presence.
"Be strong, be strong," he said to himself. "The
hour of need has come."

He entered the low ground from the hill above
the point of contact between the soldiers and the
Indians. He was alone. He walked toward the
group on the bank of the river, searching for Sylvia
there. He sang a song as he went; a hymn of his
childhood.

The grass rustled at his feet. An Indian sprang
up and aimed a gun at him; it was the brave of
Saukenuk, the White Eagle. Before he could fire, a
woman, with the wreck of youthful beauty on her
face, arose beside the brave and grasped the gun,
speaking swiftly to the Indian in the Sauk. It was

The End of the Trail 285

Feather Heart. He knew her, through the mask
of hunger and grief that was on her face.

The horse tugged at the lines, startled by the
conflict. Mortimer at that moment remembered the
animal. He led it in front of him, pointing to it
and handing the lines to the brave. "Take him.
Fly!" he cried.

There was no need for them to understand the
words.

The Indian, looking at him, shook his head. Mor
timer pointed behind to where the soldiers were
hunting the Sacs out of the tall grass and the reeds
like rabbits. The Indian glanced over his shoulder.
He gazed into the face of the woman. He lifted her
onto the back of the horse. Eunning beside the ani
mal, he turned toward the hills to the north, beyond
the lines of soldiers. Mortimer, watching them, saw
them reach the hill. He saw them join another In
dian; a small, bent man on a white pony. Even at
the distance he recognized Black Hawk in the sor
row-laden figure. As he watched, they disappeared.
He turned and went toward the group on the shore,
singing a song.

His thoughts wandered. He held them with his
will. The soldiers were shooting and slaying through
the grass with mad, glad shouts. The women and
old men huddled closer on the bank. They leaped
into the water. Some of them sank. Others reached
the islands close to shore.

There was a sound in the water below ; a hissing,

286 A Knight of the Wilderness

muttering, chugging noise, a thick yellow smoke
across the sky, and a steamboat came toward the
group. At the taffrail trailed the American flag.
Coming closer to those who cowered on the bank of
the river, Mortimer saw the Indians wave a white
flag to the boat. He heard them hail. He heard
parley. He saw a flash at the bow of the boat and
a rolling, leaping cloud of white smoke. The roar
of a gun came to his ears, and the singing of the
missies that hurtled into the Indians. They were
firing canister. He knew. He had been in the army
once. They were firing into the defenseless savages,
who sought to surrender. His song changed to a
cry of wrath. He hurried to the edge of the water.

There was a moan in the grass at his feet. He
saw a crouching figure ; the figure of a woman, a liv
ing skeleton. She bent above something that she
held in her lap.

"The white man finishes his work, little Fire
Fly," said the voice of the woman. It was Raven
Hair.

He grasped her by the shoulder and raised her
to her feet. She looked at him. There was indif
ference in her face, at first, and resignation. There
followed a gleam of recognition and, after that,
resignation and indifference.

"Where is she? Where is she?" he asked,
eagerly.

A puzzled look was her reply.

The End of the Trail 287

"The white woman? The woman who was with
you? My sweetheart?"

She understood now. * ' Gone ! ' ' she said. ' ' She
did not come to you? She went with her sister in
the night."

His amazement made her continue. ' * With Half
Ear, the friend of the whites ! ' ' she said.

His thoughts ceased. He could not comprehend.
He did not try. After all, what did it matter? He
laughed softly, to himself. "Fire Fly is dead," he
said, simply.

She looked at him, wondering at his unconcern
for the white woman.

"Take him to the land of the loways," he went
on. "Look, there is the river. Beyond is the land
you seek. I will help you. "

She shook her head.

"Come."

He half dragged her to the edge of the water.
On its surface, between the steamboat and the spot
where they stood, the heads of swimmers bobbed
across the waves. The boat was firing canister. He
could see the shot skipping over the river's surface,
dragging up after it little spurts of water, which fell
back in pretty dimpling ripples.

* ' Swim ! " he said, leading her into the water.

With her burden in her arms, she waded into
the current, to her knees, to her waist, to her breast.
She leaned forward. She leaped. She struck out
with her legs, and with one arm. The other held

288 A Knight of the Wilderness

something close to her breast ; something black and
awful.

He returned to the shore, and stood watching. A
horse whinnied softly at his back. A lean roan nose
nuzzled into his elbow. He reached his hand up with
out taking his eyes from the swimming woman and
laughed.

' ' Powhatan I " he said, laughing again, softly. ' ' I
knew you would come to me. ' *

He watched the woman swimming. A numbness
crept into his head. He laughed at it. The woman
was in midstream, swimming more slowly. One
arm she did not use. His thoughts floated above
him. He held them until ha could watch the woman
across the river.

The water was filled with swimmers. Many of
them sank. Those who neither swam nor sank, died
on shore when the soldiers reached them.

Raven Hair was beyond the center of the sweep
ing flood that divided the bank from the nearest
island. She struggled through the yellow, lapping
current with her legs and one arm.

The air was again filled with noise ; they were fir
ing canister. A swarm of jumping jets scattered
along the top of the water, swift as light, thick about
the woman who swam.

The water around her was no longer churned by
her strokes. Peace came upon it. Her head sank
lower. It passed from sight. A little whirlpool
formed where she had been. In the midst of the

The End of the Trail 289

whirlpool there floated a tiny bundle, done up in a
blanket. It whirled and tossed in the turbulence.
Quiet came over the water. The bundle floated down
the stream on the silent current, mysterious, awful.
A man with sunken cheek and flaming eye, who
stood at a distance on the bank of the river, turned
with a laugh in his throat and made his uneven way
toward the hill. At his heels trailed a roan horse,
wonderingly, with ears erect. Up the hill they
passed, and over the top, beyond the sight of those
who might have seen.

CHAPTER XXIH
RESIGNATION

SYLVIA HALL, erect, graceful, certain of step,
with a brave look in her blue eyes, slowly walked
along the street of New Salem. Her old beauty, the
beauty of youth and happiness, was gone. In its
place was a new and sublimer beauty ; the beauty of
sorrow, of strength in adversity. She had fought
down the past. She had built up from the wreck of
her heart fortitude for the future.

It was late in August — a month since she and
Rachel had escaped from the Indians by the aid of
Half Ear. Their flight had been without any start
ling event, although Rachel had nearly succumbed to
excitement and fear. They had found the horses
that Half Ear had secreted in a glade half a mile
above the Sac camp, and had ridden on through the
night, making a wide detour to avoid the Indians.
Then they had turned to the southward.

Only twice had an alarm come to them. Once
they had seen a solitary Indian making his way
slowly northward in the first light of the morning,
but had escaped his observation. The other incident
was more exciting. It was later on the first morn
ing. Half Ear, leaving them in a strip of timber
along the banks of a stream, had ridden across a

290

Resignation 291

narrow prairie toward a smaller piece of woods
which he told them concealed a ravine where they
must hide during the day. Presently he had come
back in deep consternation, telling them that a band
of Indians was concealed in the defile. Thereupon
they fled precipitately through the woods.

They had not been followed. Nevertheless
Half Ear, in a state of trepidation, had not halted
until they had hurried many miles. Then he had
stopped only to cook some of the corn meal he had
taken from his mother, — which Sylvia had not had
the heart to eat, — after which they had ridden slowly
southward, keeping in the timber as much as pos
sible, and not resting until evening.

In the night they had taken their course again,
traveling more directly under the shelter of dark
ness. On the second morning they came to a grove.
A rough trail led through it, but this the Indian
avoided, keeping in the edge of the woods until he
came to the mouth of a dry creek, hidden by thickets.
This he entered, telling them that must be their
hiding place until night.

Passing up the creek bed, they came presently to
a pocket, where the bushes opened into a clear space.
Here, to the astonishment and dismay of the Indian,
they found a white man sitting. He proved to be
Isaac Frake. By what rare chance he had come
there was not revealed by him. He released them
from their conductor, whom he took in custody, and

292 A Knight of the Wilderness

they went thence to Fort Armstrong, where the In
dian disappeared.

Frake brought them to New Salem; and Frake
now walked by her side as she passed up the street
of the settlement. When she met him in the grove
she saw him without surprise, without fear, with
out concern for what the meeting might signify. She
was prepared for anything that fate might hold for
her. She was glad that he released them from the
hands of the savage, whom she mistrusted had
learned too much of the ways of the white man.

Isaac Frake had been kind to her, and to her
sister as well. To herself he had been almost tender,
in an uncouth way. She knew the meaning of it.
She had been sorry ; she surely had not been glad ;
perhaps she had been indifferent. She did not an
alyze, for she did not know.

He had been kind since they came to New Salem.
He had been pressingly kind, at times. He had
stayed in the village for no obvious reason other
than to be kind to her. That she understood, and
the reason for it. She would rather that he had not
remained, perhaps. She had not given it much
thought.

Now he had just been telling her why he stayed,
and that he wished to take her with him when he
went. She had fought down the past and was ready
to meet the future. She was alone in the world, or
would be soon, for Eachel was to be married to Wil
liam Munson within a month. She could not stay

Resignation 293

always with her kin in New Salem. She would not
do so, if she could, yet she was in a sense helpless.
Fate had offered her this refuge.

If fate had presented this to her a month before,
or a week, her heart would have rebelled against it.
If she had permitted herself to confront the thought
of going with this man a month before, or a week,
she would have shrunk from it. She had subdued
the past in so far as the struggle lay within herself;
she could not have been sure of conquering it if the
old memories had been awakened from without, as
they would have been awakened a month or a week
before by the -thought now obtruded upon her.

For until the week before a spark of hope had
lived, unknown for the most part, and resisted when
known. Until the week before there were moments
of weakness when her soul denied the terrible truth ;
when shreds of faith persisted in weaving them
selves into her life. But within the week her brother
and William Munson had returned from the war.
They had told of Mortimer Randolph's friendship
with the Indians, and protection of them, with many
exaggerations and no omissions. They had told of
seeing him give his horse to the Indian woman ; they
had told how he had sent her into the river to save
her, and had turned away distraught when she was
killed.

Last, and not least for her struggling soul, they
had told how he had vanished from the face of the
earth and had not been seen again. That he was

294 A Knight of the Wilderness

dead she was thankful. It was a wicked and selfish
gratitude, perhaps, but it brought its own absolu
tion ; for if he was dead she could hold to the truth,
and in the truth there was nothing from which he
deserved more than her wish that he had not lived.

Now Isaac Frake walked beside her to know her
choice. "I don't want to be hard on you, Sylvia,"
he said, humbly. "I know your feelings. I know
how much you thought of this man, and how bad you
feel about it."

She interrupted him. "There is no man of whom
you may speak like that, Mr. Frake," she said,
quietly, without emotion or reproof. •

"I know, I know," he hastened to say. "I don't
mean that. I know that is all past. But I can 't help
feeling that you have not got over it entirely yet.
It was a terrible blow."

She stopped him by lifting her hand.

"Excuse me," he apologized. "What I want to
say," he went on, endeavoring to avoid the forbidden
thing this time, "what I mean to say is, that I don't
want to hurry you, and I '11 wait for your answer;
but I' d like to have you tell me now if you can. I
want to get back to my place on the Eock River.
I've been away a long time, and there's no telling
what has happened there. The Indian troubles are
all over now, and we won't be bothered any more by
them pests. I want to get home, and I want to take
you with me, but "

Resignation 295

He did not consider it safe to conclude his qual
ification. There was a pause.

"I am not sure that I should make you a good
wife, Mr. Frake, ' ' said Sylvia, ending it. * * I am not
sure that I should want to."

"Why not?" he asked, bluntly, with a general
intention of obtaining some specific basis for dis
cussion and argument.

"I am not sure that you would be able to make
me contented," she replied, thoughtfully.

"Why not?" he asked again, not seeing an open
ing.

' * I have told you that I do not care for you, ' ' she
made answer, frankly, but as kindly as she could.
"That is why."

"And I have told you that I don't care if you
don't care for me to begin with," he rejoined.

' ' You should care. ' '

* i Well, of course, I 'd want you to before we got
through, and I think you would," he asserted.

Frake was sufficiently shrewd, but his mind did
not move delicately enough for finesse. He was los
ing his self-possession.

"I am not sure that I ever would," observed his
companion.

"Now, Miss Sylvia," rejoined the man, a little
less adroit in his tone and manner, "I '11 take my
chances on that."

"I am not sure that I dare take mine."

Frake changed his tactics. "I don't see why,"

296 A Knight of the Wilderness

he said. * ' You don 't know me yet. I am sure I have
been good to you — " she nodded her head slightly,
conceding as much. "I got you away from that In
dian; there 's no telling what he would have done."
She agreed. "You might never have got that far
from the Hawks if I had n't induced Governor Key-
nolds to offer a reward. That 's what the Indian
was after in the first place. I brought you
down here ; I took good care of you ; I did not force
myself upon you; I haven't bothered you or urged
you ; I am willing to wait for you now. ' ' She nodded
as he catalogued his devoted acts. "And if it had n't
'a' been for me, you might never have found out
about that other man," he added, visibly encouraged.
She did not nod. If he had known the dangerous
chord in her mind which he had tangled, if he had
realized how often she had remarked that circum
stance in the days of the struggle, he would have
turned pale; he would have had great cause to be
thankful that she believed the other man dead.

He saw that he had made a mistake, though he
could not comprehend its gravity, believing it to be
only a trespass on the forbidden subject. He be
gan again after a pause, in which it became ap
parent that he was to get no help from her.

"If I have been good to you lately, you ought
to know that I will be after this," he said. "God
knows how I love you. I have got a good place,
lots of rich land and plenty of stock, and a man to
help me work it. I 'm going to build a new log

Resignation 297

house. I Ve got furniture for it, and utensils. I
can give you a good home, and you haven't got
any to go to. Where are you going to live ? Who is
going to take care of you in your old age ? ' '

He did not perceive that the inducement he held
out to her grew to be almost a threat in its condi
tions, or that he was taking advantage of her help
lessness. She made no sign that she realized it as
she nodded her head in acknowledgment of the point
he had driven home.

She made no reply. They walked in silence until
they came to the door of the house where Sylvia
and Eachel were living. She stopped and faced the
man.

' ' I wanted you to know what was in my mind, Mr.
Frake," she said. "I wanted you to be certain of
the considerations that might enter into my decision.
Are you sure that it would be fair to you if I should
go with you? Are you sure you would care to have
me go with you?"

She looked fully and frankly into his face. His
eyes fell before her's.

' ' You know what I think about it, ' ' he said. ' ' You
know what I have said. ' '

"And you would like to have me answer you,
now?"

He nodded greedily.

"I will go with you at the end of a month," she
said.

"Oh, Sylvia, Sylvia," he said, with cumbrous

298 A Knight of the Wilderness

tenderness. He came closer to her. He reached
out his hands to hold her. He thrust his face toward
hers. She drew back with complete calm.

"No. Not now. At the end of a month," she
said, and entered the house.

CHAPTER XXIV
THE MAN FROM THE DEAD

ON a day in August there came into the street
that ran between the log cabins clustered
about Fort Armstrong, a man dreadful to look upon.
He was cadaverous and spectral, with glistening,
flaming eyes of brown, deep in his head, as though
they had burned their way through the lean flesh of
his face. His skin was the color of death, save that
in each cheek glowed a round, red spot. He had
no hat ; his hair was scorched by the sun of summer,
an<l fell in a tangle about his ears and forehead. His
clothes were tatters. On his naked breast were
wounds as though he had pressed his way through
thick brush. At his heels stalked a horse, thin and
woeful, of a faded roan color.

An Indian lying in the street ; a pitiable, drunken
Indian, with bent and cringing frame, with narrow
eyes, disfigured, lacking half of an ear, saw him
and arose from his drunken stupor with a shriek.
The man came toward him, jibbering, with a new
light in his glistening eyes. The Indian, seeing him
come, crouched, screamed, and fell lifeless, a prey
to terror and the liquor of the whites.

Soldiers, hearing the scream, came running from
the fort to see. The man walked among them. They

299

300 A Knight of the Wilderness

stood aside, appalled. An officer appeared, cried out
an order, and placed a hand gently on the bony
shoulder of the wanderer. The man looked at him,
vacancy in his glistening eyes.

4 'Sylvia," he whispered, and laughed.

They led him into the fort. They stripped his
torn clothing from his body. They bathed him and
cooled his fevered head, laying him in a bed. He
looked upon them listlessly, submitting to what they
did for him without thought. The surgeon, attend
ing him, gave him a draught. He sighed, and sank
to sleep.

General Atkinson, coming in curiously to see the
stranger as he slept, gazed long upon the face, pass
ing from side to side of the bed.

''It is he," he said at last; "the man who went
to find the Hawk."

The man slept deeply, and long. When he awoke
the fever was strong within him.

"It is going to be a hard fight, and a close one,"
said the surgeon, working over him. "The man has
been through some sort of hell, I should guess.
We '11 see what we can do. I 'd like to hear him tell
about it. It might be valuable to a professional man
to hear his story. ' '

There was much to agitate and excite the garri
son in the fort through the days that followed, and
the sick man was forgotten by all save those who
cared for him, and the surgeon who wanted to hear
his story. Black Hawk had been captured, betrayed

The Man from the Dead 301

to his enemies by an Indian of the Winnebagos who
believed that it might be worth while for an Indian
to do the will of the white men. He had been tracked
to his lair in the Dalles of the Wisconsin through
this fellow's treachery. Now Lieutenant Jefferson
Davis had gone to bring him to the fort, and they
awaited his coming with lively expectation.

Lieutenant Davis returned. Black Hawk, riding
his white pony, unutterably sad, ignoring the stare
of the soldiers, rode at his side, with a proud look.
Behind, in the escort of the soldiers, rode the White
Eagle, the bravest and fiercest of the young men of
the Sacs. Behind them all, Feather Heart, defiant,
with a spirit that rose higher under calamity and
ignominy.

Theiue was rejoicing among the soldiers, who had
suffered much to bring this thing to pass. There
were cheers and jubilations. Between the cheering
lines rode the captives, haughty and disdainful.

The Hawk was to be sent to Jefferson Barracks,
near St. Louis. Thence he was to be taken to
Washington to be interviewed by President Jackson,
and to be admonished. Jefferson Davis was to es
cort him. The young brave was to be taken with
them. As for the young squaw, she would be given
into the keeping of Keokuk, the friendly Sauk in the
land of the loways, whither the imprisoned chief and
the young warrior would be brought after the pros
pective inculcation of moral doctrines at the hands
of the whites. Such were the orders, and such were

302 A Knight of the Wilderness

the plans. Their execution only awaited the arrival
of the steamboat Warrior from Jefferson Barracks
to bear them thither.

Lieutenant Jefferson Davis, sitting that evening
with the officers of the fort at the mess table, ex
changing talk with them, in course of conversation
heard about the stranger who had come among them
a week before like a man from the dead. He lis
tened keenly to the story, fascinated by the romance
and mystery of it.

"He seems to be pulling through all right now,
but it was a close fight," said General Atkinson.
"We are rather impatient to hear what he has to
say. He seems to be some one of consequence. We
have no idea who he is, further than that he was the
man who undertook to bear the message to Black
Hawk from Dixon's Ferry."

Hearing that Lieutenant Davis sprang from his
seat with an exclamation of astonishment. Without
pausing to explain he hastened from the quarters to
the door of the room where the man lay ill. The
physician, coming out at the moment, encountered
him.

"What 'sup? "he said.

' ' How is he 1 " returned Jefferson Davis, eagerly
"He is a lifelong friend. I want to see him."

"So?" said the surgeon. "You can't see him
to-night, my lad," he went on. "The fever has
broken and he is sleeping normally. He has had a

The Man from the Dead 303

fine day. But you can see him in the morning, I
guess."

The young lieutenant submitted impatiently to
the necessity, and returned with the surgeon to the
mess-room.

In the morning, before the sun was warm, he was
knocking gently at the door of the sick-room. The
surgeon thrust out his head.

''All right; come in," he said, in answer to the
questioning look. "Go easy, though."

The man lay on the bed, pale and quiet. His
eyes were closed. His hair, thinned by the fever, lay
across his high brows, bronze on alabaster. Jeffer
son Davis stepped softly to the side of the bed. He
took one of the thin hands in his own.

"Mortimer! Mortimer!" he whispered. "God
bless you ! Mortimer ! ' '

1 i Go easy, there, ' ' warned the surgeon.

The sick man opened his eyes. The glisten had
gone from their brown depths. He gazed, puzzled
and questioning into the face that bent over him.

"Jefferson, Jefferson," he said, "Is it you? Per
haps you can tell me. Something seems to have hap
pened. I can't quite understand it. Where am I?
What !"

He did not finish. As he spoke, a change came
over his face. A look of pride, of coldness, of for
mality succeeded.

"Don't look at me like that, Mortimer!" cried
the other, observing the expression. "It is all right

304 A Knight of the Wilderness

now. I knew it was all right as soon as you werfe
out of sight, when you left me at Dixon's. I 've been
foolish, Mortimer. I want you to overlook it. ' '

The face of the sick man softened.

' ' I knew all the time that I was making a fool of
myself." The other hastened on, earnestly "I
knew that there had been a blunder somewhere. I
don't want to know where. I don't want you to tell
me anything about it. All I want you to tell me is
that you are well again. ' ' He spoke with a pressure
of the thin and feeble hand that he held.

"Don't make me weep, Jefferson,'* said Mor
timer, smiling at him. "Don't make me weep. lam
outrageously weak."

"Steady, there," interposed the physician watch
fully. "Go easy, now."

Mortimer turned to him. "Doctor," he said,
"You need have no worry for me now. You have
done your work too well for that. I want to talk to
this man. He is an old friend of mine. We were
boys together It won't hurt me to talk to him; it
will do me good. ' '

The surgeon half shutting his eyes and pursing
his lips, scrutinized them both for a moment and left
the room without further word. The eyes of the
two friends met. There was a moment of bounteous
silence.

"It is a mistake, Jefferson," said Mortimer,
presently. ' ' Shall I tell you about it ? "

The Man from the Dead 305

* * No ! " exclaimed the other decisively. ' * I don 't
want to hear about it. ; '

"Jefferson, it does me a world of good to hear
you say that. If you don't have to hear it, so much
the better. If the truth is not necessary, I am glad,
for the truth would hurt, somewhere. ' '

"Where have you been? "What have you done?
What has happened?" asked the lieutenant, dismiss
ing the other subject finally, with a look of affection
at the sick man.

"You '11 have to tell me something that has
puzzled my head, before I can begin," returned
Mortimer. "I have been trying to figure out how I
came here. Do you know? Have you heard them
say?"

"You came into the fort like a ghost, raging with
fever," explained the other. "That 's all anybody
knows about this part of it."

"I thought so. The last thing I remember is that
horrible slaughter of Indians up there on the Mis
sissippi. It was on the Mississippi, wasn't it?"

Jefferson Davis nodded his head.

"Wasn't there a steamboat there?" pursued
Mortimer, ruminating. "It seems to me that I can
remember a steamboat. It fired canister among the
Indians. Yes, I can see it again now ; the spurts of
water scurrying across the river's face in among
the swimming savages. God ! It was awful. There
was a steamer, was there not ? ' '

"Yes, the Warrior was there."

306 A Knight of the Wilderness

' ' Who commanded ? ' '

''Captain Throckmorton. "

"I should not like to be Captain Throckmorton
when the time comes for me to answer to my
maker," said Mortimer, solemnly.

Lieutenant Davis made no audible comment, be
ing in the service of the Government.

"And tell me another thing/' resumed Mortimer,
looking fearfully and anxiously into the face of his
friend. ' * The sisters, Rachel and Sylvia Hall ; were
they saved?"

Understanding broke upon the intelligence of
Lieutenant Davis. * ' They were brought in by an In
dian and are in the hands of their friends," he re
plied. "They are safe and well; but I don't think
both of them are entirely happy, ' ' he added, his eye
twinkling.

Mortimer ignored the innuendo with some ap
parent annoyance. His love was not a thing to be
alluded to in a spirit of levity, even by his lifelong
friend. Of all the world, only two had heard him
speak of it.

"Where are they?" he asked, with an attempt at
composed indifference.

"Somewhere down in the middle part of the
State, I think," Davis made answer, regretting his
intrusiveness.

"And one more thing, Jefferson," Mortimer con
tinued. "I had a horse once. Can you tell me any
thing about that?" His hope was faint.

The Man from the Dead 307

"That fine roan of yours?"

Mortimer's eyes lighted. He nodded affirmative
ly. "Powhatan," he said.

"He 's here. He followed you into camp. He 's
fat and fresh — and lonesome, waiting for you. ' '

Deep satisfaction settled on the countenance of
Mortimer. He sighed with relief and contentment,
as he began his story.

"Let me see," he commenced. "The last time
you saw me was when I left you at West Point on
furlough, to visit my people in Virginia, was n't it?"

Jefferson Davis nodded his head.

"That's where my story begins," Mortimer re
sumed. "When I reached home I found trouble
brewing. Before my time for returning was up,
things came to such a pass that it seemed to me best
for all involved that I should leave. That I should
disappear — exile myself — immure myself in a wil
derness. All I took with me was my horse Powhatan,
a sum of money that was my own, and the execra
tions of my people. Only a firm of attorneys in Eich-
mond knew where I was. I kept them informed in
my travels.

"We wandered rather aimlessly, Powhatan and I.
I don't know how it came about; perhaps it was the
lure of the army ; perhaps it was fate ; but we found
ourselves at last at Jefferson Barracks I didn't
have much to do with the army men, because it was
better for many reasons that I should not be known,
and there was risk of meeting old acquaintances

308 A Knight of the Wilderness

among the officers at the Barracks. But I stayed
because I liked the taste in the air.

" Finally I came to know a man named Thomas
Forsyth, who had been an agent of the Sacs and
Foxes, and was then living at Jefferson Barracks.
Through him I became interested in the Indians, and
undertook a mission or two of slight consequence.
I was with General Gaines when he drove Black
Hawk across the Mississippi a year ago last spring.
I knew the old chief, and felt sorry for him. I felt
sorry because I believed that he was an honest old
fellow; pig-headed and mistaken, but sincere and
without any viciousness."

1 'He is a capital old fellow!" interjected Jeffer
son Davis. * ' He is a sterling old man ! I have a high
regard for him. ' '

"Yes, he is," rejoined Mortimer, his thoughts on
what he was telling. "When I returned from Sau-
kenuk last year I met a man in central Illinois who
impressed me as a great and wonderful man. I met
him in a little settlement on the Sangamon River,
near Vandalia, on my way to the State capital on
business for Forsyth. He is young, little more
than twenty-one or two, but there is something about
his soul that makes me believe he will be a giant
among men. He is rough, uncouth, even vulgar in
some respects ; and yet I believe that there springs
in the bottom of his heart a flow of inspired wisdom,
of tenderness, of loving sympathy and understand
ing, which would flood the world if events should tap

The Man from the Dead 309

it. He is of the most humble and insignificant origin,
a product of the destitute frontier, without any ad
vantages, with only such education as he has been
able to grub, without opportunity, without inspira
tion from his environment ; and yet I believe that if
the chance comes, he will cope with destiny and mold
it. He held me from the first, and I stayed in the
little village to be near him. ' '

"Who is this man?" asked Jefferson Davis, deep
ly attentive.

" He is Abraham Lincoln, ' ' returned Mortimer.

"Lincoln," repeated Jefferson Davis, thought
fully, trying to recall. "Was he not with the militia
at Dixon's ferry?"

"He was captain of militia," Mortimer told him.

"A great, tall, lank awkward fellow with a home
ly face and a marvelous smile ? ' ' pursued the young
lieutenant.

"You know him?" asked Mortimer, with a trace
of surprise and pleasure, by way of answer.

"He told a funny story at a council one day; I
remember him. ' '

"Wasn't the story shrewd?" asked Mortimer,
as one who takes pride in the deeds of his friend.
"Wasn't it pointed? Didn't it mean something?
Did n 't it clear something up for all of you, generals
and all?"

"Yes, it did," Jefferson Davis conceded; "and
it was funny, too, the way he told it. But we all

310 A Knight of the Wilderness

thought it somewhat out of place in a militia captain
to crack jokes at a council of war. ' '

* * My dear Jefferson, ' ' rejoined Mortimer,
pleased, "did it occur to any of you as possible that
you were all out of place except him 1 ' '

Jefferson Davis smiled and nodded his head, and
Mortimer took up his story again.

"There was another reason that might have kept
me in the settlement," he said, looking afar off, "if
Lincoln had not been there." It was in his heart
to tell this friend, too, about his love. * ' Sylvia Hall
was stopping there with kinsfolk of hers ; a delicate
flower in the midst of a desert; a fragrance in the
wilderness — what are Gray's words?

' ' Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark, unf athomed caves of ocean bear ;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. ' '

His voice fell ; the other could scarcely hear.
"How such a soul was brought from the stars into
this wild spot, God alone can answer. Dainty, beau
tiful, noble, pure in heart, with lofty instincts and an
innate delicacy of feeling and sentiment, she was like
a wanderer among these rough and barbarous peo
ple; a rare and exquisite exotic in a rugged soil.
She is even different from her own family. For her
only I should have stayed ; with them both my life
was full to the brim.

The Man from the Dead 311

"I did not tell her of my affection. There was
this thing in Virginia that forbade me. In the
autumn she left and went to her home at Indian
Creek. In the spring following — this spring — I re
ceived papers from Henderson and Lee, my attor
neys, that told me I was restored in the sight of men,
and left me free to go to her with my love.

' l Before I reached her home, I heard of the dan
ger from the Hawk. I thought I might be able to
avert it, having been among the Indians, and having
sympathy for them, which I feared few other white
men had. So I stopped only to warn them, and went
to do what I could do. I failed, and then — I cannot
speak of it yet ; I am too weak. She was taken cap
tive, and I tried to find her. I had some hard, rough
journeys. I believe the hardships and distress of
mind were too much for me. I don't remember. I
am tired, Jefferson, and I must rest. But I am well
now! I am well again! God bless you, Jefferson,
this has been a glorious day. Come back to me,
won 't you ? ' '

He held out his thin hand. Jefferson Davis
pressed it for a moment in silence. Eeleasing it, he
turned to leave the room. At the door he looked
back.

Mortimer, with a smile of peace upon his face,
rested, with even breath, and the color of returning
health creeping into his wasted cheeks.

CHAPTER XIV
DARKNESS

THE month of respite that Sylvia Hall had given
herself before becoming the bride of Isaac
Frake was near its close. Another day would be
the last. Frake, who had been at his place on the
Kock Eiver, had returned to New Salem two days
before, resplendent in a new suit of butternut and a
high, stiff-crowned hat that he had gone all the way
to Chicago to purchase, and was conducting himself
in lofty manner at Kutledge's tavern. In obedience
to a promise made to Sylvia, which he had the craft
to observe, he had not proclaimed his errand in spe
cific and definite terms ; but he had deeply hinted at
it, which was sufficient in a village with the news
facilities of New Salem.

Sylvia was sitting in the large room of her kins
folk's cabin, which served as kitchen, parlor, dining-
room, and nursery by day, and bedroom by night.
The children were at the little school kept by Mentor
Graham ; the father and mother in the harvest fields.
Rachel, married to William Munson, lived in a home
of her own. Sylvia was alone in the house.

She sat by the open door, looking out upon the
cluster of houses and the street that led between
them to the mill behind the bluff. Her hands were

312

Darkness 313

in her lap. She was idle. She was not even think
ing. A perfect calm was upon her — a final stoicism.
She had chosen, and was adjusted to life.

As she sat there she saw the angular form of
Abraham Lincoln ambling up the street. He was
keeper of a store now, having failed in his election to
the legislature. Her heart felt a pang for him as he
walked slowly along; for a great grief was close be
side him. Ann Butledge lay at her home desperately
ill, a prey to the morbid sensitiveness of her con
science. She had always accused herself of break
ing faith with the man who had betrayed her confi
dence and deserted her. Sylvia understood the story
with a woman's intuition, and pitied the man.

As he came near he raised his eyes from the
ground and looked at her. Without removing his
gaze, he came toward the open door. She arose and
bade him enter. He did so, in silence. Pacing up
and down the room without speaking, he confronted
her at last, fixing his sad eyes upon hers. "I have
good excuse for coming here this afternoon," he
said.

She told him he needed none. He acknowledged
her graciousness with a momentary lowering of his
eyes.

"I have something for you," he went on.

She murmured something that was nothing and
waited for him to continue.

"I had a very dear friend once," he said, soberly.
"He was the finest man I ever knew. One day he

314 A Knight of the Wilderness

set out on a dangerous journey. Before he went he
gave me something that I was to give to you if he
never came back. I do not think he is coming back. ' '

His voice faltered. She stepped toward him with
a quickening heart. There was that in his manner
and tone which told her the matter was portentous.

"It was one night when I was with the soldiers,
in camp near Dixon's. It was just after you had
been captured by the Indians. He came into the
camp that night; he had just come from Indian
Creek with the alarm. He had gone there to see you,
and found the place in ruins. Your brother had told
him what had happened to you, and he was setting
out alone to find you. He was afraid he would not
come back, and he wanted me to give it to you if he
didn't. He said it would remove a shadow. I have
waited a long time. I am afraid he is not coming.
Here it is. Do you know who it is from ! ' '

He held out toward her a large envelope.

"Yes," she whispered, trembling throughout heA-
frame as she reached out a hand and took it.

"There will be no harm if you read it and he
does come, ' ' went on Lincoln, looking tenderly down
upon her bowed head. "He was going to have you
read it when he started for Indian Creek this spring.
He wanted you to read it ; only, he wanted to give it
to you himself. But I am afraid he is not coming,
and I thought you ought to have it before it is too
late."

There was a significance in the tone of his closing

Darkness 315

sentence that caused her to look quickly at him. He
had turned toward the door and she could not see
his face. Before she could command herself to speak,
before she could be sure whether she wished to hear
more from him, he was gone.

With a fluttering heart, she hastened to the light
by the door, clasping the envelope eagerly in her
hands, like hope new found. Beaching the doorway,
she paused, her eyes staring wide into the future be
fore her. The letter dropped from her hands. She
leaned against the door post. She dared not read.
She dared not brave the past. What if this letter
should tell her that what she believed were not true ?
What if it should tell her that it was true ? She was
contented with what she knew ; why should she know
more! She had won the fight with her past; why
should she risk the struggle again? She had ad
justed herself to the future ; should she hazard it all
on a bit of writing? It would be folly. And had he
any right to wish her to read it now? Was there any
shadow that could be removed? He was dead now;
should she revive her buried memories ?

Being at the last a woman, she picked it up and
read.

It was a letter to Mortimer Eandolph, Esquire,
formerly of Eoanoke, Virginia, indited to him by a
firm of attorneys in Eichmond, Virginia.

"We find ourselves at liberty to inform you,'* it
ran, after formal salutation, "and take great pleas-

316 A Knight of the Wilderness

ure in so doing, that the recent unfortunate misap
prehension under which you considered it advisable
to leave your home and family connections has been
removed. Through the death of your brother, facts
have come to light which make it obvious to all ac
quainted with the circumstances that, instead of
being a malefactor deserving the execration and con
tempt of your family and friends, under which you
suffer, you are in truth worthy the greatest honor
and respect ; that you have made a courageous and
noble sacrifice of yourself, and taken the blame of
another's sin, out of consideration for his wife and
children, who would have been keen sufferers had
the truth been known; a belief which you will per
mit us to say we have entertained throughout the
trying episode. In brief, your brother, dying, has
confessed to the infamy of which you permitted
yourself to be suspected. We are requested by your
parents to communicate with you, to this effect, and
to forward to you letters from them, severally, which
we herewith beg to enclose. Congratulating you
most heartily,

"We beg to remain, dear sir,

1 'Your obedient and faithful s'v'ts,

* ' HENDERSON & LEE, Att 'ys at Law. ' '

As she finished she sank upon the chair which she
had occupied before Lincoln came, bringing the let
ter. In the tumult of her feelings she was forced to

Darkness 317

wait and calm herself before she could collect her
thoughts.

She looked for the enclosures; they were miss
ing. She glanced about the room to see if they had
slipped from the envelope to the floor. She could not
find them. She opened the letter again, which, in
her emotion, she had folded and folded into a thin,
hard strip, and read it a second time. She arose
from the chair and walked to the doorway, op
pressed, seeking light and air.

Why should she be so perturbed by the communi
cation? Why should it stir the mighty powers of all
that lay in her past into contention against her re
adjustment to life? What had this, whatever it
might mean, to do with that other thing? What
could they of Virginia know of an Indian squaw on
the banks of the Mississippi River! How could a
brother's guilt clear him? Why should it disturb
her to know he had ever made such a sacrifice ? Why
should it arouse an anguish in her soul before which
she felt herself becoming helpless? It had no bear
ing. It must not, it should not, unsettle her !

The sound of a horse's hoofs crunching in the
sand of the roadway ; a low whinny ; the glad cry of
a voice; someone was moving swiftly toward her!
She was half aware of it all through her obsession.
She recalled her eyes.

They rested upon the face of Mortimer Randolph,
wan and worn, beautiful in the joy of seeing her.

318 A Knight of the Wilderness

"Sylvia! Sylvia!" he murmured, coming close,
with eager haste.

She shrank from him. Her countenance was
blank. He stopped, troubled and at a loss.

' * Sylvia ! " he said.

She turned from him and entered the house, mak
ing no response. He followed slowly, uncertainly.
He passed to her side. He touched her hand — the
hand that held the opened letter. She withdrew it
from his touch; she shrugged her shoulder away
from him.

" Don't touch me — yet," she said, in hollow voice,
averting her face, and extending the hand with the
letter in it as though she would have held him off
with it.

Instantly he became all repose and self-posses
sion. "Miss Hall, I humbly crave your pardon," he
said, with calmness and formality. It was not re
buke, it was not offended dignity, it was not wounded
pride ; it was only the delicate consideration of an
instinctive gentleman for a woman's wish that
molded the form of his speech and gave it its tone.
He believed that she had changed in her affection ;
he would not question her privilege. ' * I ask you to
forgive my effrontery. It was not my intention to
be rude. Perhaps you will be able to condone my
blunder ; perhaps you will be able to understand how
I fell into it. I — in the circumstances, I was led to
expect another form of greeting from you. I again
ask your indulgence for my unwitting mistake."

Darkness 319

The tone of his voice pierced her soul; the sin
cerity and generosity of his words rent her. Her
body was wrenched by her unhappiness. He saw,
and knew he had caused her pain.

* ' I beg you will not misunderstand me, ' ' he has
tened to say, still calm, and misunderstanding her
most completely. "I had no intention of insinuating
that your welcome should have been different. I
hope you do not think that. It would be most un
warrantable presumption in me to question your at
titude toward me. That I have no cause for doing
and should have no right to do if I thought there
were cause. There was nothing in our former inter
course that would give me the privilege of asking
of you the consideration I did myself the honor
to expect on a renewal of our acquaintance. If
there had been, I should not now have the right to
press you for a renewal of kindness, after the lapse
of time and events which have intervened since our
parting. I am grieved to have given you pain. I beg
you will not permit yourself to believe either that
you owe me any regard because of our former ac
quaintance, or that I feel that you do. I am indebted
to you for the great pleasure of such companionship
as you accorded me. I can only thank you, and beg
that you will permit me to look back upon my asso
ciation with you with pleasure and gratitude. ' '•

He spoke slowly, with a feeling in his voice that
he could not hide, though he made an effort to do
so. He labored to make her understand that he held

320 A Knight of the Wilderness

her free to change in her regard for him, without
implying what the regard had been. His eyes were
on the floor as he spoke. He did not see that she
trembled with stifled sobs as she heard his chival
rous, magnanimous words.

"No, no, it is not that," she said, with averted
face, still holding the letter extended toward him.
"This letter," she added, fluttering it in her trem
bling hand. "Is there anything more than this
letter?"

For the first time he observed what it was, hav
ing refrained from looking at it before, believing
it private. He was puzzled to see her with it.

"Where did you get it I" he asked, nonplussed.
"When did you get it?"

"He gave it to me, today?"

"Abraham Lincoln?"

"Yes."

* * Did he know I was coming ? ' '

"He said you were not coming."

"There were enclosures," said Mortimer, after a
pause, beginning to think that he saw her meaning.
"I have lost them, I am afraid. I have been ill, and
they were mislaid. I can tell you what they said. ' '

"No, no," she repeated, in a heavy voice. "It is
not that. Is there nothing else you have to tell me ? "

She was losing the fight ! She knew it, and was
glad ! He could tell her all the horrible truth now,
and she would be rejoiced to yield the fight, to sur
render herself to him. Only, he must tell her. She

Darkness 321

dared not look at him as she awaited his reply. She
waited long, for he was lost in an effort to fathom
her meaning. To her heart, each moment that she
waited was a lifetime.

"There is nothing I can bring to mind to which
you might be referring" he said, at length, slowly.
"There seems to be some strange and subtle mis
understanding between us, Miss Hall," he added,
still in his formal tone. * * Perhaps we should be able
to remove it by mutual explanation. Can you tell
me more definitely what you mean? Are you will
ing to?"

She could not speak for a moment. "Is there
nothing about an Indian?" she asked, slowly, with
a struggle between each succeeding word.

"I have had experiences with the Indians re
cently, ' ' he replied, perplexed. ' ' If you will be more
definite?"

' ' About an Indian woman ? ' ' with an effort which
cost heavily.

Mortimer was more confused than he had been.
"I do not know what you mean, Miss Hall," he said.
* ' Can you not help me a little further ? ' '

"No, no, no, no," she cried, in a voice that was
between a moan and a whisper. "I can not! Oh, he
will not tell me ! He will not tell me !"

She placed her hands before her face, and walked
slowly toward the door, weeping. Mortimer fol
lowed her with his eyes, amazed.

As he watched her, he saw the figure of Isaac

322 A Knight of the Wilderness

Frake in the doorway. Sylvia saw it at the same
moment through her tears. She recoiled and stood
in the center of the room, like a statue.

"Well, what's going on?" demanded Frake, an
grily; for he feared this man as one fears another
to whom he has done deadly injury; and fear is
anger and hatred.

"What you doing to this woman! What do you
mean by coming here and taking advantage of a
defenseless woman ? You needn 't think you can play
any of your tricks here ! ' '

There was silence. Mortimer overlooked the bit
ter, burning insult for the time. His eyes were fixed
on Sylvia. He watched her closely, trying to under
stand.

"What you doing here?" demanded Frake again,
with a show of the heroic. Seeing Randolph with
Sylvia, and seeing Sylvia in distress, he thought the
man was seeking a reconciliation, which he knew
could be effected, given the opportunity. From this
false premise, he concluded, shrewdly enough, that
his greatest security lay in vigorously braving the
other down, depending for his advantage on Sylvia's
conviction that Randolph was a guilty man.

Mortimer, wholly ignoring the other's bluster,
spoke quietly to Sylvia.

"Is it your wish that I should answer this man?"
he asked, deferentially.

"He has the right to ask it," returned Sylvia,
meeting his gaze with sublime courage.

Darkness 323

1 'Mr. Frake," said Mortimer to him, advancing
and extending his right hand ; there was no sign in
his face of the surprise, the dismay, the grief that
was in his heart, "I offer you an apology. In regard
to my visit to Miss Hall, I have to say that I came
here this afternoon after a long absence with the
desire of renewing an acquaintance with her which
I once found enjoyable. I found her averse to a
resumption of our former friendship, which she had
given me no reason to suppose she would care to
revive. I protest to you, as one entitled to my confi
dence in the matter, that I have no knowledge of the
cause of her perturbation, and do not feel myself at
liberty to conjecture. ' '

Frake considered it best to take the hand ex
tended to him, and to express briefly his satisfaction
in the explanation offered by Mortimer. This done,
the Virginian dismissed the entire subject with a
word, and turned toward Sylvia. She was pale and
slightly trembling; but for that her outward calm
was complete.

"Miss Hall, permit me to say good bye, and to
express again my regret in having annoyed you," he
said, respectfully, bowing to her in strict formality.
Again it was not to rebuke her, but to relieve her, if
necessary, from any embarrassment that her mem
ories might have caused her. It was to erase all that
had been between them ; for such seemed to be her
wish.

"Good bye, Mr. Randolph," she said, evenly;
and he was gone from the room.

CHAPTER XXVI
LIGHT

A BEAHAM LINCOLN lay on his back in the
*~V grass at the foot of an oak that grew in front
of his store, one of his grotesque feet resting high on
the trunk of a tree. A book leaned against his up
raised knees — a volume of Blackstone. He was en
deavoring to read it, but was making little progress.
It was not often that he failed to concentrate his
attention upon his reading when he was able to as
sume the position which he now enjoyed. It was his
favorite attitude. To-day it availed him nothing.
He had shuffled his feet higher and higher along the
bole of the tree to the extreme length of his long
legs, to no purpose. He could not keep his mind on
the pages before him.

Isaac Frake was the cause of his mental disturb
ance. He was worried and annoyed because Isaac
Frake had returned to New Salem, and because there
appeared to be foundation for the rumor that Isaac
Frake was about to take Sylvia Hall to wife. He
knew Isaac Frake from top to bottom. He knew
Sylvia Hall as well as it is given man to know
woman. He knew Mortimer Eandolph with the in
forming love of one strong man for another. He
knew the tender and abiding affection that Randolph

324

Light 325

had borne for Sylvia. Mortimer had told him of it
upon occasions, most memorably upon the eve of his
departure for Indian Creek in April, after the day
he had received a certain important and interesting
communication from his attorneys in Richmond,
Virginia.

Knowing these things, he was disturbed and made
anxious by the prospective marriage of Frake and
Sylvia. He was positive that Sylvia could not know
what manner of man Frake was, or how he had con
cerned himself in her affairs and the affairs of her
lover. Making every charitable allowance for the
circumstance that Sylvia was a woman, he still could
not credit that she would marry this man if she had
even a suspicion of the truth about him.

From which, being logical, he deduced that there
was a bitter misunderstanding somewhere, and that
a great and irreparable blunder would be made if
something or someone did not prevent it. So far he
could go, and no further, in Blackstone or out ; for
Mortimer was among the dead or missing. He had
not been seen or reported since the day of the fight
at Bad Axe, when he had been observed passing over
the crest of a hill leading his horse and raging with
fever, or — worse. If Mortimer were here, or known
to be alive, someting might be effected. He himself
was in possession of certain facts which would go far
toward bringing about a better state of affairs. But
without Mortimer he could not see the way.

Lying on his back with his feet high on the trunk

326 A Knight of the Wilderness

of the oak, Abraham Lincoln felt that he had much
to blame himself with, as he thought of Mortimer.
He believe that he had blundered, largely and fa
tally. When he overheard the conversation between
Frake and Half Ear in the creek bed at Kellogg 's
Grove he had not interfered then in the designs and
machinations of the man for reasons that he thought
good. He argued that Mortimer, roaming among the
Indians, would be in no graver danger from Half
Ear, under instructions from Frake, than he already
was exposed to. Half Ear, as well as any other
Sauk, would probably kill him anyway if the chance
offered.

As far as the plan involved the release of the
Hall sisters, he approved of it. If Half Ear could
succeed in abducting them from Black Hawk's band
they would at least obtain their freedom, and Sylvia
could subsequently be rescued from Frake, either
when Frake met the Indian at Kellogg 's Grove or
when he brought the girls back to civilization. In
deed, he had so far followed out a counterplot in
that direction as to send Slicky Bill Green, his faith
ful follower, upon a secret mission to Kellogg 's
Grove as soon as he himself had returned from his
discharge at Watertown. But Slicky Bill had failed
him lamentably, just as others were to fail him later
in life when matters of greater moment depended.

Even now, in the midst of the miscarriage of his
counterplot, his conviction that he had erred arose
rather from his failure to effect his purpose than

Light 327

from any flaw he could find in his schemes by process
of logic. Nevertheless, the conviction was strong
and depressing, and whether the fault were his or
not, the fact existed that Sylvia was about to be pre
cipitated into a tragic disaster, and Mortimer was
out of reach, to say the least.

The state of affairs had engaged his agitated at
tention for some days ; ever since Frake 's return, in
fact. A delicacy about interfering in another's con
cerns, increased by the element of uncertainty aris
ing from the circumstance that that other was a
woman, had deterred him from any open activities
until this day. This very afternoon his sense of obli
gation to his friend and of duty toward the young
woman had impelled him to take one step. He had
gone to Sylvia with the communication that Morti
mer had received from his Richmond attorneys and
which he had entrusted to him for conditional deliv
ery to Sylvia when he set out on his hazardous
search for her. He had explained to her the circum
stances of his having it. In fact, he had not returned
from his errand ten minutes before, to resume his
Blackstone and his recumbent attitude.

But his thoughts persistently wandered from
Blackstone to Mortimer and Sylvia. The more he
thought of the matter, the more convinced he was
that the cloud that the attorneys ' communication was
intended to clear away was not the only darkness
that existed between Mortimer and Sylvia; that it
would not of itself be sufficient to induce her to repu-

328 A Knight of the Wilderness

diate Mortimer and marry this other man. He did
not know anything about the elaborate and lucky
devices by which Frake had prevailed upon her to
think that Mortimer already had an Indian wife
when he fell in love with her, but he was convinced
that something more than a shadow had destroyed
her faith in his friend, and that the letter alone
would not suffice in setting matters to rights.

Coming to this conclusion, he took his feet down
from their elevated resting place and stood upright
upon them, resolved to return to her and utterly
blast Frake before her eyes, if nothing more were
to be effected by it than her own salvation. Turning
in the direction of the cabin where she lived, which
was within sight of his tree, and casting his glance
thither, his heart jumped.

Standing before the cabin he saw a horse; a
beautiful roan thoroughbred which he could not pos
sibly mistake. As he gazed at the animal in stupe
faction, in which was mingled a trace of supersti
tious alarm, he saw Isaac Frake approach the door
of the cabin and enter. Without further delay he
clapped his book together, threw it without regard
into the open door of his store, and plodded up the
street, thankful for the first time in his life for the
length of his legs.

As he came near he heard a voice within, a low,
modulated voice. It was the sweetest sound he had
ever heard, and gave him the greatest throb of joy
he had ever known, for it was the voice of Mortimer

Light 329

Randolph. He put his legs to a greater strain, and
ran forward, arriving at the door just in time to fold
Mortimer himself in his great arms, as he was com
ing forth, so unutterably sad and woebegone that he
did not see his friend until he felt his embrace.
Without stopping for other greeting than the acci
dental hug, Lincoln bolted through the door, drag
ging Mortimer with him, struggling as much as a
gentleman from Virginia could with decorum on
being brought into the presence of a lady.

Frake, with his back to the door, was standing
before Sylvia, talking to her in rough expostulation,
evidently demanding to see the letter that she still
held in her hand. She gave him no response, either
of look or word, seeming utterly dazed and lost.

''Howdy, Miss Hall," said Lincoln, scarcely able
to repress jocosity in his voice, so great was his
exultant delight in finding matters as they were.
"Howdy, Frake!"

Sylvia stared blankly at him, and at Randolph.
Frake turned abruptly and fell into a state of bewil
dered consternation at sight of the two. Randolph,
not yet released by his friend, stood with his hat in
his hand and his head bowed, like a recalcitrant
schoolboy.

"Miss Hall," said Lincoln, gazing gloriously
around,"! suppose the first thing I ought to do would
be to apologize for coming here like this, but I'm not
going to do it. If I'm right I won't need to apolo
gize, and if I'm wrong I'll have a whole lot more to

330 A Knight of the Wilderness

apologize for than just coming here, so I'm not going
to waste time doing it now. ' '

Sylvia Hall, feeling the imminence of a great
event in her life, made no answer, unless the recalling
of her attention from abstraction and the fixing of it
upon Lincoln with an intentness that he could almost
physically feel might be termed a response. Frake
remained staring, with a sullen gleam of anger and
fear coming into his eyes. Mortimer continued as
he was, fairly in the hands of fate.

"I may be right and I may be wrong," Lincoln
went on, his voice ringing with gladness and enthu
siasm. "I'm willing to take the consequences, and
the responsibility is all mine. I'll answer for it. I
might as well be brief. The truth is somewhere
about here, and we can never get to the truth too
soon ; sometimes not soon enough. ' '

Mortimer ventured to raise his eyes toward his
friend. His thoughts were all afloat. He could not
wait to hear what Lincoln had to say. He could not
listen to it with his eyes on the floor. Sylvia still
looked at Lincoln. Frake, overwhelmed by the sud
denness and surprise of Lincoln's interruption and
his own fears, looked from one to another furtively.

' ' Miss Hall, something seems to be wrong here, ' '
Lincoln continued, looking into her eyes with a sym
pathy and sincerity that made her heart flutter
again, and build up hopes. "I am not a great be
liever in meddling with others folks' affairs unless
I am asked, but something seems to have gone so

Light 331

far wrong here that I am not going to wait to be
asked. ' '

The words were prophetic of the events that were
to make him a great character of history, belonging
to the centuries.

"My excuse is my love for this man and my re
gard for you," he said, jerking his head toward Mor
timer and Sylvia in turn. "I'd risk making a big
mistake for either. That letter doesn't seem to have
done much good ; ' ' — he inclined his eyes toward it —
"it doesn't seem to be all that's needed to set things
right. Frake " — he turned suddenly — ' * Frake, I
want to ask you a few questions. ' '

He paused longer than he had at any time in
his talk, with his eyes fastened upon the man. Frake
met his gaze with sullen defiance.

"Did you ever happen to know a miserable little
Indian by the name of Half Ear?" Lincoln asked,
quietly.

"Now see here, Lincoln," growled Frake, his face
growing intensely red and ghastly white in swift suc
cession, "none of your blamed jokes, now! I won't
put up with 'em."

Sylvia, in quivering expectancy, turned her eyes
upon the face of Frake, and saw there much more
than the answer he refused to make. Mortimer
glanced at him for a moment, returning his gaze to
Lincoln. Lincoln, releasing him and gesticulating
with his long arms as he proceeded, spoke again.
Mortimer might have left now, but he did not. He

332 A Knight of the Wilderness

was held by something stronger than the strong arm
of his friend. He was held by the expression on
Sylvia's face, which he saw in a glance as his eyes
returned to Lincoln.

* ' You make it pretty clear that you do know him,
Frake," the tall, thin man resumed. "Now, Frake,
do you remember seeing this Indian in the woods at
Kellogg 's grove that afternoon when we found the
five dead bodies?" Frake was speechless with sur
prise and dismay. "And do you remember meeting
him in the bed of a dry creek that same evening?"
Frake only stared at him. The eyes of Mortimer and
Sylvia, fixed upon him, seared into his soul.

"Do you happen to recall what you said to him
that night?" continued Lincoln, not deeming it nec
essary that Frake should make verbal acknowledg
ment of the truth of the incidents which his ques
tions suggested as having happened.

"You seem to know more about it than I do,"
muttered Frake, hoarsely, with an abortive attempt
at bravado.

' * I reckon I know more about it than you think I
do," returned Lincoln, "because I was lying in the
bushes right behind you while you talked with him. ' '
Frake gasped. The attention of Sylvia became more
intensely fixed, if that were possible. Mortimer
began to see the first faint glimmerings of a light
breaking ahead.

"I am going to tell these people what passed
there, since you won't do it," said Lincoln, earnestly.

Light 333

"I think it would interest and enlighten them. If I
go wrong, you will correct my mistakes. First, you
gave the Indian your bottle of whiskey — there wasn't
much left, I reckon. He seemed to expect whiskey
from you. You told Half Ear that he was no good
because he let that red-headed paleface get away
from him on the morning before the massacre
at Indian Creek — the morning when Mortimer
Randolph rode .with express to Ottawa — didn't
you, Frake? And you told him that he was a
fool to let Black Hawk get hold of the Hall girls
after he and Mike Girty had stolen them for you
from Indian Creek, didn't you, Frake? You told
him that if he had turned them over to you instead
he would have a barrel of whiskey for his pains,
didn't you? And you renewed the offer of a barrel
of whiskey if he would kidnap them from the Indian
chief who held them captive and bring them to that
same spot where you sat. Am I wrong? You also
said that he could have half of the reward of a thou
sand dollars offered for their return, which would
keep him in whiskey until it rotted his pesky hide. I
hope you gave him his share, Frake. And you gave
him promise of still further reward. You told him
that if he got a certain red scalp and brought it to
you, he could have another half barrel of whiskey.
Frake, your sense of color or your choice of adjec
tives is not very good. The scalp you meant is not
red ; it is more nearly the color of bronze ! ' '

He spoke without passion or malice. His voice

334 A Knight of the Wilderness

rose as he went on, but the increase in pitch was
more from joy and gladness rather than from other
excitement ; for the grim jest he played was dear to
his heart. His disclosures poured so rapidly from
his lips, their significance and intimate bearing upon
those who listened were so stupendous and of such
moment to all of them, that there was not a sound or
the movement of a muscle in the room as he uttered
them. As he concluded with his reference to the
scalp of red hair, he turned his eyes critically toward
Mortimer and looked quizzically at his head.

"What the hell were you doing there?" cried
Frake, utterly routed and confounded. Lincoln
smiled at his unwitting confession to the truth of
all he had just said.

"I didn't quite know why I was there that
night, ' ' replied Lincoln, with a drawl, ' ' but I am be
ginning to find out now. I merely thought at the
tune that you would bear watching. I didn't inter
fere with you then, Frake, because I thought your
scheme might be a good way to free the Hall girls.
And it was. It was. So far it worked out right. We
are all grateful to you for that, Frake."

"I saved their lives," blurted Frake, seeing a
foop-hole.

"You cannot complain of ingratitude on that
score, Frake," rejoined Lincoln, shaking his head
and his long forefinger at him, "because, unless I
am mistaken, Sylvia Hall is going to marry you for
that." He was guilty of the indelicacy wittingly,

Light 335

with specific intention and purpose. He said it be
cause the moment was psychological.

A sob that was half a moan escaped from Sylvia.
She turned away her head and covered her face with
one arm, clinging with the other hand to the rough
wall of the cabin, wavering, unsteady. The soft look
of love in Mortimer's eyes, fastened upon her, be
came more tender, more compassionate, more yearn
ing. Involuntarily he made a move to go to her, but
checked himself. The time was not yet come. Frake,
confounded, cast his gaze upon the puncheon floor.

"There's one thing more I want to ask you about,
Frake, before I go," Lincoln began again. "I don't
know that it applies at all. If it does, I don't see the
connection, but it has to do with facts concerning
yourself, and facts about you should not be over
looked at present. Do you know anything about an
Indian woman named Raven Hair!"

Eaven Hair! At the sound of the name Sylvia
reeled against the wall. She closed her eyes behind
the arm that hid them. She dared not meet the look
in any face. Mortimer, seeing its effect upon her,
wondered, seeking vainly in his memory for explana
tion of it, believing in his heart that here lay the
solution of the enigma.

"Ask him!" snarled Frake, jerking his thumb
toward Mortimer, intending to sneer and leer.

Ask him! Ask him! Mortimer, beginning to
understand, looked at Sylvia. She shuddered against
the rough logs of the wall. The light began to break

336 A Knight of the Wilderness

upon him. The clouds rifted and scattered. The
time was coming swiftly.

"I might ask him," returned Lincoln, calmly.
"He might know something about her. But you
probably know more, because she was your wife. ' '

Sylvia, leaning against the rough wall, uttered a
low cry. Mortimer heard, and the light was full
upon him. The time was close at hand.

' * The hell she was my wife ! ' ' growled Frake, at
bay. * ' She was not my wife. ' '

"It's your shame to say so, then," rejoined Lin
coln, solemnly. * ' She should have been. ' '

A tense silence. Lincoln broke it.

"What do you know about it?" growled Frake,
beaten.

"Why that old Indian who came into camp on
the night after we left Dixon's ferry, whom you tried
to kill, told me about it," replied Lincoln, "and I
don't think he was such an awful liar as you tried to
make out, Frake ! ' '

Frake, in the wrath of defeat, turned fiercely to
ward Sylvia.

"I've had enough of this, Sylvia," he snarled.
"Are you going to let these men come here and insult
me f If they won 't get out, we will. Get your bonnet
and come with me ! "

It was a command, a command in which all the
brute and the coward and the bully that was in him
found voice. Sylvia stood apart from the wall. She
took her arm from before her face. She was a

"Sylvia!" His hand reached forth and touched
her's, gently.

Light 337

tigress; a princess of the Goths a thousand years
out of the past; a priestess of Greece; erect, rag
ing, magnificent, sublime in her lofty dignity.

"Go!"

Her arm, the arm that had hidden her eyes, ex
tended toward the door. Her voice was solemn,
awful. Frake, quailing before her terrible look, cast
his eyes furtively about the room, from one face to
another, and slunk out. Lincoln, watching him go,
followed. As he passed through the opening there
came into his eyes a look of unutterable, wistful sad
ness, for as he left these lovers his thoughts were of
his own love, of Ann Butledge, who lay dying in her
father's house.

1 * Sylvia ! ' ' Mortimer whispered her name, coming
close to her, where she stood by the wall of the cabin.
In his voice was all the love, all the compassion, all
the tenderness that was in his eyes. The light was
full within him. The time had come. Her head was
upon her breast. Her hands were clenched at her
sides. She wavered and swayed. Her heart burst
within her with joy and with grief. Her gladness
was smothered beneath the weight of the wrong she
had done this man, her lover, whom she loved with
her whole life.

"Sylvia!" His hand reached forth and touched
hers, gently.

"Leave me," she said, in a heavy whisper. "I

338 A Knight of the Wilderness

cannot lift my head. I cannot look into your eyes.
I have sinned against you. ' '

He raised her stiff and clutching hand. Gently,
sweetly, he lifted her head.

"Sylvia!"

She raised her lids, slowly, timidly, falteringly.
Her eyes met his. In them was contrition, humility,
adoration, inestimable love, unutterable joy.

He kissed her upon the lips.

THE END.

When Good Fellows Get Together

t| For all generous minds that have heen young there is
a radiance of loveliness that nothing can ever obscure
over the Bohemian days of long ago. Remembrance
hallows them : all their hardships are forgotten ; through
the mists of time they glimmer in unsullied beauty, com
ing back with their lost loves, their vanished comrades,
their hopes that since have withered, their dreams that
are dead and gone ; and the heart thrills to remember, and
for a moment the glory of morning streams over all
the world. — William Winter.

€J These lovely lines serve as the introduction to WHEN GOOD
FELLOWS GET TOGETHER which is a most charming book —
either to own or to give a friend.

flThe editor, James O'Donnell Bennett (Dramatic Critic of The
Chicago Record Herald), has chosen with rare taste a compre
hensive selection of quotations from a wide range of authors, both
noted and little known, expressive of good-fellowship, optimism,
uplift and cheerfulness.

€J The following department headings give an idea of the range

of the subject matter: The Good Fellow's Short Guide,
XXV Toasts from Shakespeare, Meeting and Parting,
Eating and Drinking, Smoking and Dreaming, Living
and Loving, Sweethearts and Wives, Playing the
Game, The Golden Days, etc., etc.

Printed in two colors on fine paper and bound in dark green cartridge
paper covers with an inlaid reproduction in three colors of a beau
tiful painting hy F. S. Manning. 12mo. 200 pages. Price $1.00.
Bound in fine Persian Ooze, gold stamping, boxed; price $2.00.

MISS MINERVA and
WILLIAM GREEN HILL

By FRANCES BOYD CALHOUN

€| Screamingly ridiculous situations are mingled with bits of
pathos in this delightfully humorous tale of the South.

<I Do you remember "Helen's Babies"? and "Mrs. Wiggs"?
Do you recall "Tom Sawyer" and "Huckleberry Finn"?

Miss MINERVA AND WILLIAM GREEN HILL is every bit as

genuine as any of these.

€J It contains a delightful little love story, but deals principally
with William Green Hill, a six-year-old boy with sunny hair,
a cherub's face, and a wonderful dialect acquired from the plan
tation negroes among whom he formerly lived. In the narration
of the activities of Billy and his associates, Jimmy, Frances and
Lina, the author shows an intimate knowledge of the workings
of the juvenile mind and makes the pages sparkle with laughs.

CJ From start to finish mere is no let-up in me fun. Any normally
constituted reader of the book will soon be in a whirl of laugh
ter over " Sanctified Sophy," "Uncle Jimmy-Jawed Jup'ter,"
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other quaint characters of this fascinating book. Their hearts
will go out to lovable little Billy, and they will be convulsed
by the quaint speeches of bad Jimmy, who says to his chum :
"You all time gotter get little boys in trouble. You 'bout the
smart-Alexist jack-rabbit they is."

Small 12mo. ; 212 pages; bound in scarlet
cloth cover attractively stamped ; 22 clever
illustrations by Angus MacDonall. Price $1.00.

A WOMAN FOR MAYOR

A novel of today — timely and interesting
BY HELEN M. WINSLOW

Illustrated by Walter Dean Goldbeck

<J Whether one is in sympathy with or against the idea ot woman
in politics, Miss Winslow's story should hy all means he read.
As a notable piece ot fiction it is worth while. Besides, it has
ror the first time advanced a real idea as to how woman may
become a valuable factor in deciding the right and policy of the
nation by means of the ballot. Some of the strongest novels of
modern times have had a political side, mostly relating to men.
Here is something new — a political novel in which woman fig
ures more largely than man — and of course that means a good
love story.

<J Prominent people in various parts'of the country — mayors,
politicians, lawyers, doctors, preachers and political economists
— have been interviewed by the press concerning Miss Winslow's
story. While opinions differ as to the political significance of
the novel, all are agreed that the author has been exceptionally
clever in both plot and story; that she has shown how woman
may retain all her womanly qualities and still take an interest in
the questions which involve the betterment of the community
in which she lives.

<J Full of excitement and plausibility and the love thread is most pleasing. —

Baltimore American.

€J Shows the ease with which a woman may be chosen when men fail utterly to

treat correctly great moral questions. — New York Herald.

^1 It is a vivid, well-told story. — Salt Lake Tribune.

CJ Contains a great deal of lively repartee and clever talk. The love story it fully

up to requirements. — Buffalo Evening News.

flMiss Winslow has written a story that every suffragist will hug to her bosom,

and that every good natured opponent will concede is clever. — Chicago

Examiner.

{JThe romance and the problem are blended very deftly and with results that are

extremely happy. — Chicago Inter-Ocean.

€J One need not be a suffragette to find "A Woman for Mayor," an absorbing

story. — St. Louis Times.

12mo., standard novel size; 342 pages; bound in maroon
cloth, with striking four-eolor jacket. Price $1.50.

JE SOUTHERN f

A 000119848 o